


The Hinges of Destiny

by FlintTemples



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Background Relationships, Background Slash, Character Death, Dark Magic, Death Eaters, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Existential Crisis, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Heir of Slytherin, Hogwarts, Homophobic Language, Horcruxes, Implied Sexual Content, Knights of Walpurgis, M/M, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Ravenclaw, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Souls, Teenage Tom Riddle, Time Travel, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-04-03 17:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14001399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlintTemples/pseuds/FlintTemples
Summary: Harry Potter had been a resilient young man with fire in his heart, but discovering he is a horcrux without being part of some master plan, and the existential crisis that follows, can dampen even the most potent soul. He makes a reluctant decision with the aid of a time-turner, but that decision has unexpected consequences, and now Tom Riddle is unknowingly caught between two time-travellers, each with their own view of how his life should be lived.“Choices are the hinges of destiny.” —Edwin Markham





	1. The Cost of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been wanting to write this story for a very long time. It is a work-in-progress and I am a busy individual who is studying their master's degree whilst also working full-time, god help me, so updates may be slightly sporadic. Nonetheless, I will see this story through to completion as I have already written parts of the ending and the ideas simply will not leave my brain alone. 
> 
> This story is mostly canon compliant, but ignores the - mostly - happy ending at the end of Deathly Hallows. Harry does not witness Snape's death, does not receive his memories, does not find out that he is a horcrux and must be sacrificed, and so when Voldemort calls him into The Forest Again to die, Harry does not follow his orders. This story begins many years later, the war still waging, with Harry figuring out that he is a horcrux all on his own. Naturally, he is not handling it well.

_The most wicked of things is to leave the company of the living before you die._

* * *

 Everything, from the photo in his hand to the grass that he glimpsed through the open window in his bedroom, was a delusion. It was there, it existed in every sense of the word, but he had long since determined that existence and reality were two separate concepts that didn't dare touch. Everything was unreal. Everything _had_ to be unreal. He could not find it within himself to accept anything that would counter this fact _. It was undeniable._

Hermione had tried to convince him in days gone by that for something false to exist, there had to be a reality because, she had said, 'reality simply has to exist for you to even know that any kind of unreality could be remotely possible'. She thought her counter-argument was infallible, had left him sitting on the settee at the Burrow after he had accepted the offer of tea, but Harry thought that she was being uncharacteristically irrational and didn't dare bring the concept up again.

 _As if any falsity relied on the existence of reality_ , he thought with a grim smile _. As if reality somehow confirmed delusion. Preposterous_.

Harry threw the photo frame in his hands, and its madly grinning trio of occupants, on his bed with a little more vigour than he expected, and left his bedroom with a slam of the door.

The Burrow was near silence today, the only sounds to be heard was the gentle tinkling downstairs of something stirring in the kitchen and the lifting of pages from Hermione's room, and Harry had to cast a silencing charm on his shoes and throw his invisibility cloak over his head to ensure that he was not accosted. The truth was that he found himself wanting conversation less and less with each passing day. It wasn't so much the company that he didn't appreciate - he had known Hermione for years, and what remained of the Weasley's were more than amicable - but it was the aspect of his grand idea that life as he knew it was a mere delusion that kept him from talking more than he had to.

He had come to this fully fledged conclusion at his height of uncertainty, shortly after the death of Ron and before Ginny's escape from the Burrow, but knew that there was no other explanation. No valid explanation, at least. _And_ , he reasoned to himself as he walked in the direction of the bathroom, _when all validity was lost anything that remained was the truth_.

Understanding this resonating statement was another step forward entirely, something Harry didn't dare attempt lest he fog his brain further, because being as uncertain as he was five years ago would be one more step towards acceptance, and Harry would never accept what was. He could not accept the way his life had played out, the twist and turns that had defined his life, all his life.

He could not accept that he was a horcrux.

Harry's legs gave way to the bathroom floor. A clatter mingled with his sobs as he knocked over several stray objects, but he didn't pay heed to such insignificant, false objects. He didn't even pay heed to the way in which his legs could no longer bother to move, or the tears that were falling thick and fast.

He couldn't be a horcrux, could he? The feeble thought had adamantly refused to leave him, and was even harder to shake off minutes later as he undressed quickly, ignoring the numbness of his limbs that had allowed him to fall in the first place, looking forward to a cool shower and pointedly avoiding the action of placing his hands anywhere near his heart lest he hear the erratic number of heartbeats that he so often did at night when there was little else to hear. Not one, but two souls, coinciding within one unwilling body. It was barbaric, it wasn't right, it couldn't be real.

But Harry knew it was.

His whole body shuddered involuntarily when he stepped under the cold stream of water, but he couldn't complain, as glad as he was with the distraction from his previous thoughts.

He thought, instead, of the confines of the Burrow and the way in which you could not leave the property's grounds without being restricted of returning, and the way in which the place – that had felt like home in Summers that had long since left him – acted like little more than a prison to him and to all of its occupants, the number of which had dwindled significantly.

Fred and Ron were dead, Ginny had escaped - Harry presumed with a small sigh of acceptance that she, too, had died - and Mr. Weasley had been captured a few years ago. According to the Weasley clock, he was still very much alive but within as much mortal peril as the rest of Voldemort's opposition.

Harry could not help but blame Mr. Weasley's capture for the home-turned-prison state that he was living in; before, he and Hermione would take daily walks through the fields across the village to talk and properly grieve Ron, but after the wards had been proved breakable by Mr. Weasley's departure, they had been strengthened and the Fidelius Charm had been added. Only those inside the house were the secret keepers, which is why any escapades out of the property were improper and life-endangering. Especially for occupants that included blood traitors, mudbloods, and Harry Potter. If one person left, they were sentencing themselves to either betrayal or death – the two worst outcomes, in Harry's mind.

_His mind, much like his heart, that he shared with a part of Voldemort's soul._

There it was, again, that nagging thought that refused to leave him, that sought reference in his thoughts wherever possible. It was damned frustrating, and often proceeded a night of being wrought by the gut-wrenching feeling of guilt. The continuous sensation of being responsible for everything that the war had done to the world...

The deaths, the broken households – hell, he even felt responsible for the children born into such a mess. Was it not, after all, his persisting existence that gave people hope? A heinous hope that - by the time their child had matured in such a ghastly, morose way – they, too, would be able to partake in the mass celebrations of a war won?

By the time that Harry had left the bathroom and began to walk in the direction of the kitchen, his shoulders almost felt heavy with the burdens of responsibility that derived from the fact that he had selfishly ensured Lord Voldemort's prolonged life by being too cowardly to sacrifice himself for the cause.

He just wasn't that noble, he realised. He wasn't that brave; he was scared of death, just as Voldemort was. He was scared of the nothingness, scared to be yet another missing occupant of the Burrow – because that is would he would be, _missing_. He would be missing and people would miss him. He simply couldn't enlarge the never-ending amount of grief that enveloped every one of whom he loved.

It was as simple as that. He couldn't, he wouldn't, and he didn't want to.

And for that, Harry had little doubt that he was the dregs of humanity.

* * *

 "Another airborne attack over Bristol!" Mrs. Weasley was visibly flustered by the news. "I'd hate to think of – " she stopped abruptly, shooting Harry a furtive glance as he stepped through the doorway of the kitchen, before busying herself with the cooking once more, leaving her previous sentence unfinished.

Harry knew instinctively that she had been about to voice her fear for her husband. It was a conversation topic that she so often avoided.

Arthur Weasley had been one of many pureblood men captured a few years ago whilst he was caught up in one of the strangest events that characterised the second wizarding war. Rumours had surfaced, after around a month of worrying and staring at the ingenious Weasley clock, about the purpose of the mass capture. Mrs. Weasley had struggled for weeks to accept that Arthur had been placed under the command of the Death Eaters by use of the Imperius curse, but as time wore on - and Mr. Weasley still had not been confirmed dead - it seemed plausible.

Harry, too, felt his thoughts drift to Mr. Weasley's current well-being. In his mind's eye, he saw Mr. Weasley's hand on the clock switch to 'deceased'. One blink later he was back to his former position - 'mortal peril'. Harry wasn't sure which was worse.

"Would you like me to warm up some soup for you, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked lightly.

"No thanks," he replied, adding that he's make himself a sandwich later. She smiled at him in response.

"How about you youngsters have a game of Quidditch this afternoon? Within the wards, of course," she added as an afterthought.

Harry made a gesture of wavering on a decision, though he knew for certain that he wouldn't dare be the one audacious enough to barge into George and Percy's bedrooms, raving about a game of Quidditch. Hermione would be easier to ask, of course, if she had any affinity to Quidditch at all, but even then the aspect of a Quidditch game in the Weasley's backyard seemed foreign and awkward. The idea of all the inhabitants of the household sitting down for a meal together as they had once done now seemed foreign and awkward. Harry thought vaguely of how war had torn each of them apart, before returning his attention to the woman standing in front of him, an excuse at the ready.

"I'd really much rather have a lie down. I think I'm starting to get a headache."

"A headache never used to stop you boys from having a game of Quidditch," she said accusingly. Harry knew her attempt to make him change his mind would only be half-hearted, so he merely shrugged and made his way over to the door.

"I'll see you later, Mrs. Weasley." He didn't wait for her response before he hurried out of the room in the direction of the bathroom once more. He wouldn't be interrupted there, he wouldn't have to make excuses, and he would have time to think. Not thoughts of bliss and happy times, admittedly, but thoughts nonetheless.

* * *

 Hermione woke with a start. She lurched forward, threw off her duvet cover and proceeded to withdraw her wand from her nightgown pocket. Her bedroom was bathed in the light of the sunrise, and her eyes seemed to take longer to adjust to the light than normal. She looked around the room once, using her eyes as the only way to detect a presence, before muttering, "Homenum Revelio."

Nothing. No vague outline of a figure that she had expected. Absolutely nothing. But Hermione wasn't prepared to lower her wand just yet, as she was as sure as she was about the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration that she had been awakened by the resounding crack that unequivocally signified apparation. But where could they be? She narrowed her eyes as though this simple action would somehow enlighten her to someone else's presence, and began to walk swiftly around the cluttered room.

The Burrow was largely safe, Hermione thought as she stumbled over a stack of books on her way to check the far corners of the room, so why would apparation be remotely possible? Laughing at herself, she walked to and sat back down on her bed once again. The sound of apparation had to have been part of a severely fragmented dream. The idea of the Burrow being subject of an attack was as preposterous as an attack on Harry Potter himself, who - Hermione had checked before retiring to bed last night - was tucked away, fast asleep.

_Wasn't he?_

She stood up and grabbed a dressing gown, before opening the door with a creak and exiting into the hallway. Harry's bedroom had been next door to Hermione's for years now, though Hermione would find herself wishing more than everything that he was back on the top floor with Ron again, and was often left ajar at night after Hermione had assured herself that he was asleep - _just in case_.

Hermione couldn't help but slow down as she approached his room. The door was as open as she had left it, and bristles of wood continued to stick out near the handle as it always had, but something was dreadfully different about the hallway surrounding the door; Harry's shoes, which Mrs. Weasley had always insisted should be taken off before he entered his room, were missing. The imprint of where they had been placed was barely visible, and Hermione felt the need to crouch down and wave her hand through the space where they had once stood for confirmation. With a sigh, she tore her eyes away from this anomaly and pushed open the door, careful to not let the bristles of wood brush by her hands, and the sight that met her eyes was one that she wished she could permanently remove from her mind.

Harry's bed was empty. This one thing alone was alarming to Hermione, but her next realisations chilled her to the bone; his bed was made, a single wand lay on his recently plumped pillow, and a photo frame lay alongside it.

With a strangled sob, Hermione launched herself at his bed in desperation as if she expected Harry to be lying there beneath his invisibility cloak with an amused look on his face, and began clawing at her hair with vigour. Her vision was blurred, her hands trembling, and the idea of exerting any kind of rationality was lost. Harry had left her.

He had willing left her. He had not been torn away from her as Ron had done, kicking and flailing, into the grasp of death. No. He had left knowing full well what he was doing, knowing full well that leaving the Burrow was sure to get him killed, knowing that each step he had taken to the threshold of the Burrow's boundaries would guarantee a loss of contact of each of the occupants in the Burrow for an unknown amount of time. He knew that no owls could enter the house for security reasons, knew that stepping outside of the Burrow would be something akin to fulfilling a death wish...

Oh, God. Hermione's whole body shook with the prospect of –

A barely audible cough interrupted her thoughts. It had sounded distant, like it may have come from downstairs, and Hermione rose from her pathetic position to clarify her suspicions. Perhaps someone had, indeed, managed to steal their way into the Burrow despite all the enchantments. Perhaps Harry had not willingly left her after all.

Upon reaching the ground floor, Hermione could clearly see an outline of a figure sitting on the couch. It was undoubtedly Harry. Hermione suddenly felt very foolish for her outburst. Why would Harry leave her? How could such a thought enter her mind? But she had to be sure that her thought was down to paranoia. Walking towards Harry, she seated herself next to him. His face was strangely vacant and Hermione wondered if he actually noticed her beside him.

"You were going to leave, weren't you?" Hermione looked at him for a full minute in anticipation for an answer, but upon realising that she was not to receive any, she stood up with a sigh and made her way to the kitchen.

"Yes." His voice was so faint, but it made her stop in her walk nonetheless. Hermione hated to hear him like this, but she had gotten used to it. The lack of gusto in his voice was now a part of Harry, and Hermione could not bring herself to not love everything Harry had to offer. Just looking at him, sitting there with his arms crossed and looking at something on the wall that only he could see, encouraged a rush of affection to surge through Hermione. He was just so...delicate.

"Why did you stay then?" Hermione asked a little too harshly, though genuinely curious.

Immediately, she knew she had said something out-of-the-loop. Harry closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. It was such an eerie noise when cast against the silence of the room. She had been too harsh. Why couldn't she have just accepted his answer? Hermione's thought process was muddled, littered with self-criticism and reprimandments of her treatment of Harry. But Harry was a grown man, Hermione reasoned after a while. He had once been a grown man who was more than capable of answering awkward questions, countering them with biting remarks, and winning people over with his infallible reasoning. Back when sarcasm and winning people over were apart of Harry, back before the death of...

"This." He said simply, one hand motioning to an old textbook lying on the coffee table, whilst the other fell to his lap. Hermione approached the table cautiously to take a look at the book's title. Her eyebrows rose skyward as soon as she could make it out.

" _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_?"

"D'you remember that Ron and I used to share the book, after he lost his own? The bloody git was always scrawling away in this book, and – " He leaned forward to grab the book from the table and began sifting through it with more enthusiasm than Harry had exerted in a while " – look here! You've even written in it, too. I remember thinking that it wasn't like you to be defacing books..."

"Yeah," Hermione said with a small smile at Harry. "I remember."

"Sometimes I think we should make a point of remembering him more, though." Harry said, glancing furtively at Hermione as if afraid that she would disagree.

"Harry," Hermione said softly, sitting down beside him once again. "I do nothing but remember him."

"But we never talk about him anymore!" Harry stood up abruptly and raked his shaking hands through his unruly hair. "For goodness sake, his name is _not_ ta - "

Before Harry had time to reach a conclusion, Hermione had engulfed him into a hug. At first she thought she had been out of order again, as Harry went rigid at her touch, but almost as soon as she had thought this, he began to shake with what she assumed were tears and was holding her as tightly as she was holding him.

"It's all my fault." Harry choked into her shoulder.

"Don't be so utterly ridiculous, Harry."

Hermione wanted nothing more than to stay in this embrace for as long as possible, but a few moments later Harry had withdrawn, his face flushed with tears and his glasses smudged.

As unorthodox as the feeling was, Hermione was extremely glad that Harry had let his guard down enough to cry; he had been as unresponsive as a part of the furniture for the last few years. Hermione had strong suspicions that this was because of his determination in believing his life was little more than a grandiose daydream.

"Are you _alright_ now?" She didn't know what made her ask this question, laced with hidden meaning, at that moment - apart from the burning desire for an affirmative reply - and Harry, too, seemed to look confused.

"Sorry, I shouldn't – "

"Yes," he interrupted her before she could defend herself for her misjudged question. "I've been so stupid, haven't I?"

She wanted to comfort him once more, to tell him that it had merely been his way of grieving, that by traipsing off into the mental state that he had been in had not been any inconvenience at all, but she didn't think he wanted to be lied to.

"I can't disagree with that," she snorted indignantly, folding her arms. "It really upset me that you viewed me as some sort of figment of _your_ imagination."

" _My_ imagination in particular? _Thanks_." Harry replied sarcastically.

Hermione laughed. "I've missed your sarcasm."

"Really?" Harry seemed genuinely surprised at this revelation. "I seem to remember you telling me on more than one occasion that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit."

"In that case, I've renounced my old ways. Or perhaps you're merely an exception."

Without caring if it made the man across from her uncomfortable or not, Hermione stared at Harry's now laughing face, embraced the swooping sensation in her stomach as she did so, a new-found glee her only emotion now that she no longer had to live with the empty shell Harry had once encompassed.

"You've never stopped meaning the world to me, Hermione. Not even when – " he paused, looking a little embarrassed. "Not even then." His laughter had been replaced by a barely detectable sad smile as he hugged her once more. "Whatever may happen, please, always remember that."

At that moment, Hermione couldn't remember a time before when she had felt so at peace with the world. She could almost fool herself into believing for a mere moment or two that a war was not being waged outside the confines of the Burrow, that Harry had not almost completely ignored her since Ginny's disappearance, that she was back at Hogwarts again with her only worries including exam grades and academic knowledge, and wondering whether Ron was finally going to ask her out...

It wasn't until three days later that Hermione could truly comprehend the inevitable meaning of Harry's words that morning; he had acted as she had always feared he would. He had left the Burrow for good, leaving behind a pouch, a single note reiterating his sentiments to Hermione and one heart-wrenching statement that had left Hermione in a confused wreck for days on end:

_Times are desperate, Hermione, and I can't bring myself to be optimistic enough to let things play out any differently._

* * *

It was with great difficulty that he managed to breathe regularly, to gulp the air around him to the point where he felt comfortable. Time travel felt like drowning, he decided, and stowed that piece of information away for _no future use_. Harry was a man on a mission of his own making, and that mission was _to die_.

Harry eyed his surroundings in apprehension. Not for the first time, he considered running in any other direction other than that which he knew would finish Lord Voldemort once and for all. The forest was eerie at night, even more so with the distant visage of the burning Hogwarts castle to cast erratic shadows of the trees on the ground, and yet the eeriness felt less than real compared to the cold feeling in his chest as he faced his last moments. He checked the watch on his wrist, waiting for Lord Voldemort’s summons, but knew almost as soon as he had how foolish it was. The watch tried to convince him it was just gone four o’clock in the afternoon, and Harry was sure that he would give anything for it to be exactly that, so he removed it from his wrist slowly, trying to savour each moment that he could, and placed it gently on the ground in an attempt to rid himself of his hope.

Lord Voldemort’s voice called out across the night. A low hiss of a voice which reverberated across the entire grounds, asking for Harry’s life in favour of his version of peace. As soon as the voice blended into the rustle of the trees of the forest and the crackling of the distant fire, a panicked hum began to resonate from the castle. Harry smiled bitterly at the additional noise, before turning his back on the castle which had once been home and walked slowly into the forest.

As he walked, he took his wand from his pocket which thrummed against his hand as if in protest of what he was doing and began to transfigure his facial features just enough to ensure that he looked as he did when he was younger – a decade younger. A flick of his wrist saw his hair grow to the shoulder-length he knew it had been at the age of seventeen after his eventful year looking for horcruxes, a simple tap saw the lines of age blur from his forehead and eyes.

He could still hear the sound of people in the school, even as he strolled deeper into the forest, and for a moment he second-guessed himself. What if the future was not something that could be changed? What if his sacrifice was meaningless, and death and destruction at the hands of Voldemort and his regime was inevitable? This was not a time for ‘what ifs’, Harry reasoned. It was imperative that he sacrificed himself. Voldemort could not die if his horcruxes survived. _And_ , Harry thought whilst shaking his head at the bizarre circumstance, _I am a horcrux. I must be destroyed_.

 _Would it hurt to die?_ As soon as he had thought this small, somewhat childish, thought, he could not help but laugh. Death was nothingness, he had decided long ago, and nothingness could not possible have any feeling attached to it, could it? Death was finality. It was the only inevitable part of life. The only saving grace of death was what a person left behind after all was said and all was done. He just hoped that what he was leaving behind was enough.

He thought back to the last day of his life, ten years in the future at The Burrow with Hermione and Mrs Weasley for company. He had not dared to share his horcrux secret that he had known about for months and months, potentially years. It was strange how time bled together in that way. But that last day was different; he had woken up and knew, in his heart of hearts, as if he had always known, that his sacrifice was important. He had discovered a box in the Weasley’s shed and, tangled up in the oddities that he had discovered, was a couple of time turners. He had recognised them immediately, although he had only seen them on two occasions in his life. Harry thought back to rescuing Sirius and Buckbeak in third year, and the amount of time turners destroyed during his visit to the Department of Mysteries in his fifth year, and then he glanced down at the device that hung around his neck. Dangerous things happen to wizards who mess with time, but dangerous things happened to wizards who didn’t. It was a pretty stupid thing to do, there had been no real rationality in what he had done, pushing the time turner’s capabilities to arrive here, at this point, in the past. Rationality was Hermione’s forte, after all.

Hermione. She had been the one Harry had left the note with, and he imagined her now, sitting and reeling with the knowledge that Harry had left her, somewhere off in the distant future. She would cry, she would get angry, she would become resigned to it all. She would find the time turner Harry had left her in a pouch next to his short note, and she would…What would she do? _Here’s a time turner for you, Hermione. Save the world. Save yourself. Save me._ He was foolish, he knew, and yet he had felt a sense of rightness as he had left it alongside the note. _The suicide note_ , he thought begrudgingly.

Harry was nearing a clearing now, and he could vaguely see a group of people gathered. A few of them were in conversation, others merely waited silently. It seemed bizarre to him that they were waiting for him. Ten years ago, Harry had stood them up. Tonight, he would right that wrong.

His legs carried him against his own will. Faces turned to watch – shocked faces, relieved faces and some which held no emotion at all. He could see Voldemort now, and his mouth was twisting into words that Harry could not hear over the sound of his heart and the ringing in his ears. He felt like he was dreaming. The forest around him felt less like a forest and more like a black mist swirling around him, like the hem of a dementor’s cloak. The dizzying sensation was nauseating. It stopped abruptly with two fateful words.

“ _Avada Kedavra_.”

* * *

He landed unceremoniously in the whiteness. Though how he knew it was white, he could not say. He was sure his eyes were fixed shut. He was Harry. He did not have any knowledge to prove this. He felt less, and he felt empty. He could not contemplate the strangeness of this despite the silent screaming of his brain which indicated that he should.

There were voices muttering distantly, and yet they felt so close to his ear that he was sure they were in his mind. The voices felt so potent and yet he could not distinguish what they were saying to him, or even if they were speaking to him at all.

He felt like he was dead, he was less Harry than he had been before; he felt alive, he was more empty than he had been before. The more alive he felt, the more empty he felt. He could think of nothing but this tautology as he lay there, in the blinding white, seeking the meaning for the feeling as though it would provide much needed guidance.

 _“The most wicked of things, Harry,”_ a voice whispered, and he jolted, realising that it was coming from his own mouth, _“is to leave the company of the living before you die.”  
_

The voice felt hollow, he felt hollow. He felt his arms move to adjust to his position, felt nothing but the sheer numbness of his limbs spread out across the ground and heard the clunking of something around his neck that felt familiar to him. And all at once he opened his eyes, knowing everything but feeling absolutely nothing.

_“It’s my turn.”_

His eyes were forced shut by the blast of air that hit him; he felt it wrap around him in much the same way he imagined a snake would its prey. He almost expected his skin to be punctured by the beast’s fangs as it continued to twist around him, steadily suffocating him. One ragged breath later, the tactility left him, and he opened his eyes, the world around him coming into more focus though he, with his eyes closed, had not noticed otherwise.

The first person to look in his direction was a Slytherin boy – younger than himself - whose eyes were slits of grey, narrowed at the apparition before him.

"Professor, sir," the boy said quietly. His voice, barely above a whisper, gained the attention of every individual in the room and they all turned in one swift movement towards the reluctant intruder who realised too late that he was pointing his wand directly at the point on the boy’s body where his heart would be.


	2. The Unexpected

_No one is so guarded that he is not disturbed by something unexpected._

* * *

 He sat - ignoring the disqusitive stares of the surrounding students - upon his four-post bed, clutching the emerald green drapery that hung around it so as to not lose balance, affected as he was by the events of the evening.

 _Death_ , he thought to himself as he tried to remain in an upright position, _is such a joker_. He had been sure his mortality had been at risk when he had witnessed a man, hair unruly and adorned with a plain black robe, brandish a wand upon him with such sheer _loathing_ in his eyes. The type of loathing he had never encountered before in another individual.

"Such loathing," he whispered aloud to himself, barely able to comprehend as to why he would look at him that way. He vaguely saw out of the corner of his eyes his dorm mates share looks of agitation and could not help but feel an ounce of satisfaction at their actions. _They still fear me_ , he concluded as his mouth contorted into a smirk. _They have seen me at my worst, and yet..._

The silence that hung in the room was proof enough that the usually boisterous boys were waiting in fear for some kind of reaction and it was this thought that encouraged Tom to let go of the drapery.

"Riddle, mate – " the distinct voice of one of his dorm mates, Alphard Black, spoke up from the far corner of the room, but he was immediately struck by a non-verbal silencing charm sent by Tom. The latter smirked as he watched the former boy attempt to comprehend what had happened, mouthing words that no one in the room could hear, and turning in confusion to each for help. None came, as Tom had predicted, and he took this opportunity to step forward and reclaim his reputation.

"You will do well to remember exactly to whom you speak, Black. You are not my 'mate'," Tom spat the word out in disgust, "so you will not address me as such."

He let the words hang in the air for a few moments before taking a few more steps forward, precariously close to the young man, before crouching down to his eye level and whispering harshly, "Is that clear?" Tom laughed abruptly as he noticed that the boy's lip was quivering, and spoke again in a dangerously low voice, "Well? You always seem like you have so much to say, Black. Answer me!"

The boy was beginning to mouth incomprehensible words again, provoking more laughter from Tom as he turned to face his own bed.

"I see." He swiftly turned back to the boy, wand raised to his throat, "I suppose you might need my help in order to speak again? Can you not manage one, measly, non-verbal counter-charm, Black? You put pureblood wizards to shame."

* * *

Monday morning began just as benignly as any other morning. Tom woke keenly, long before his other housemates, excited at the aspect of using magic in lessons after an unusual weekend.

It was, therefore, half-hour before breakfast was served that Tom walked into the Great Hall, a textbook in one hand whilst the other concealed a yawn, his feet automatically navigating him towards the Slytherin table on the far right of the room.

No other student was present from any of the four houses but the Headmaster and a few of the teachers were awake, some scribbling what Tom assumed were last-minute lesson plans or else leafing through the day's newspaper.

Armando Dippet, Tom had noticed ever since the Sorting Feast a few months ago, appeared to be significantly weaker than he had last year. His usually exuberant voice was now a mere rasp in comparison as he spoke to the Deputy, Professor Dumbledore, and his face appeared more lined. His hand even shook slightly as it rose to punctuate a point in conversation. Upon noticing Tom's attention, he merely curved his lip as an attempt to smile, instead of calling out a greeting as his normally did. There was clearly something gravely wrong with him – an illness, perhaps? Tom smiled politely back before returning to his Arithmancy book.

He had already read it before, of course, as it had been on his required book-list for the year, but there was something satisfying about reading a book again to gleam further understanding from the words that may not have been highlighted initially, and Tom lived for this in-depth knowledge. Professor Hodge had assigned this particular chapter for weekend reading

"Good morning."

"'Morning," Tom mumbled distractedly, not really caring about the recipient of his greeting now sitting opposite him.

"I'd like to take this opportunity to offer my apologies, if you don't mind."

"Apologies?" Tom's head snapped upwards, brow furrowed in confusion. Seconds later he wished he hadn't; sitting there was the older boy from the previous evening, the boy who Tom had convinced himself for half a second was to be responsible for his death, adorned with black hair, circular glasses, and the new addition of a silver and green tie to accompany his black robes. Tom was tempted to leave the hall there and then, to take himself away from the situation.

"Yes," the stranger said with a slight inclination of his head. "It was not my intention to frighten – "

"I wasn't frightened," Tom sneered, somewhat offended, and still on the edge of moving himself away from the boy.

The boy sitting opposite him regarded him for a few seconds and Tom found himself loathing how his eyes appeared to be scanning him in judgement. He was not used to being scrutinised so heavily; his peers had never seen him as anything more than skin deep. As the strange boy's stare subsided, Tom pointedly grabbed his book again as a way to block further conversation. It didn't work.

"That's more than I could've hoped for. I dislike having to pretend I'm sorry for something I had no control over." He laughed bitterly. "We can thank _him_ – " he gestured with his head towards to Headmaster with a slight scowl " – for that." The nameless boy regarded the Headmaster with dislike but seconds later was preoccupied by the sudden appearance of breakfast.

Tom slipped his book into his bag in favour of the food in front of him. "Why is Professor Dippet to blame?"

He snorted, and Tom was shocked by his audacity – Slytherin were hardly known for such displays, and the boy opposite clearly wasn't aware of this. Tom refrained from telling him as much out of curiosity, to see how long it would take for him to cower under the unwritten laws of Slytherin.

"It's anyone's guess as to how he became Headmaster of the school. He's clearly incompetent. He botched up my 'effing portkey to Hogwarts. I was supposed to be transported to his office, not the dungeons, to be sorted. Imagine my surprise when I found myself surrounded by a group of people instead of the one person I expected. Naturally, I felt the need to raise my wand to defend myself. There's a war on, y'know." He shook his head slightly, and Tom noticed a jagged cut on his forehead.

"Gellert Grindelwald's never shown an interest in Great Britain." Tom said quickly.

" _Yet_."

"Fair point." Tom could not help but agree with him. Grindelwald was bound to at least try to attack Britain at some point – _try_ being the key word. Tom, personally, thought he had no chance. Though he did not personally like Dumbledore, denying his magical power was fruitless, and speculation was abound that he was the reason for Grindelwald giving Britain a wide berth.

A straggle of girls had gathered at the Ravenclaw table, seemingly, to do nothing but giggle furiously at some sort of inside joke or another. Their canned laughter annoyed him for some glaring reason. It wasn't until each of them looked at him that he noticed he was staring at all. Cursing inwardly, he turned back to the older boy who looked at him knowingly. Tom resisted rolling his eyes in favour of sipping some tea.

Tom supposed that his would-be killer's reasons for such an offensive introduction the previous night made sense, even if Tom didn't necessarily believe him. It wasn't particularly important in the scheme of Tom's life, and by the way the boy acted he wouldn't be particularly important in the scheme of the house, either. He had other things to worry about. He thought back to the book he had been reading and hoped that his understanding was deep enough for class.

"I'm Harold Smith, by the way," he offered his hand and Tom forced himself to shake it. He could see no reason why he shouldn't.

"Tom Riddle," he said quietly with all the enthusiasm of someone on their death bed, hoping that this would be enough to stop the conversation.

The two lapsed into silence as they ate their toast and drank their tea until a few more Slytherins began to arrive and Tom was forced into small talk. There were only so many times that Tom could greet people with a smile, however, before he was tempted to reach for his wand, which was as good a reason as any as to why the final boy, Matthew Selve, to sit down at the table was greeted with little more than a scowl by Tom.

Five minutes later he was surrounded by a group of sixth and seventh years – an unusual occurrence for any other fifth year, perhaps, but not for Tom, who found that it was with ease that he spoke to the older students.

Harold was looking uncomfortable by the group of boys that had surrounded them. Tom supposed this was due to some social awkwardness rather than genuine dislike, and resisted a fully-fledged smile at his pain. The group of boys had noticed Harold's presence, of course, but all seemed to be waiting for the right moment to be introduced.

"Tom Riddle, the very man I wanted to see!" Stephen Avery - a sixth year boy with alarming red hair - said abruptly, grinning at him, a gleam Tom recognised alight in his eyes. He was holding a newspaper clipping in his hand. It was not unusual for Tom to see this visage; Stephen was often seen sifting through countless news articles in a secluded area of the library for entertainment value. He was often ridiculed by his friends for his apparent obsession, but though they often brought attention to this slight defect, even they could not deny that he was a respectable pureblood wizard in every other sense. Tom would never stretch to calling him 'respectable', but saw no harm in allowing others to think it.

Articles brought to his attention were often humourous, or else morbid, and Tom recalled with a grimace one uncomfortable occasion last year wherein he was forced to explain to Professor Merrythought exactly why he was reading an article concerning a group of pureblood boys who had managed to turn a Quidditch match into a massacre of muggles, instead of the class work he had been set. Fortunately, his Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had accepted his excuse that it was merely research for a Muggle Studies project with minimal fuss.

"'Snot as funny as the last one I showed you, but every article's worth a read," Stephen was saying as he waved the fragment of paper through the air enthusiastically. "Ain't that right, men?" No one gave any indication that they were listening, except Tom, who graciously accepted the article.

He could immediately tell that it wasn't from any mainstream news source. The writing was riddled with profanity and seemed lackluster in writing style. Hardly family-friendly, Tom thought.

"Quite recent, this one. 'Bout fifteen or sixteen years old..."

Tom skim-read the article, about some notorious pureblood wizard supremacists from the Gaunt – such a fitting title, considering the not-so attractive description accompanying the main bulk of the article – family, and their heinous crimes, ranging from torture to permanent memory charms. Something about the article was recognisable to Tom, though he couldn't quite recall why.

"Stephen, haven't you shown me this article before?" Tom asked.

The boy addressed, who had been in the process of shoving a stack of clippings into a second-years hand, looked confused.

"I don't know, Tom. I might have done."

Disliking the idea of grappling with some long-lost memory for the rest of the day, Tom cast his mind away from the matter and slipped the paper into his bag for later reference.

"Could you pass the sugar bowl, Harold?" Tom asked quietly, his mind fixed entirely upon pouring himself some more tea before classes began.

"Of course, Tom."

Everything after this brief moment happened in a mad rush of flailing limbs and confusion on Tom's part. A mere second after Tom had grasped the dish, Harold had shaken hands with half a dozen of the surrounding students and was talking comfortably with Stephen about the rumours surrounding the Gaunt family.

"There is very little evidence to believe - yes, I realise what you're saying, but - oh, really?" Stephen seemed to be a bundle of enthusiasm at the aspect of someone who shared his interests, though whether Harold truly shared this interest was something else entirely.

Half-way through his beverage, Tom's attention had turned once again to his Arithmancy textbook as he tried to recall all the information that he thought might be helpful for the planned lesson, so engrossed that he only realised that the bell for first lesson had sounded when the scraping of chairs disrupted his reading and someone beside him jostled the book from his hand.

"See you at lunch, Tom." Harold jerked his hand a little with what Tom assumed was a wave, before running to catch up with Stephen once more.

* * *

"If you look closely, class," Professor Hodge was saying in his usual monotonous voice, "you will see the indirect correlation between the number nine and thirteen, which in turn correlate to..."

Tom could not bring himself to listen any longer. It appeared that the Professor had assigned weekend reading for the sole purpose of merely talking through it, for what Tom hoped wasn't the entire lesson. It was approaching lunch, and they had flipped five pages, so this hope was fruitless.

"I will now be distributing a numeral and letter equating chart that I wish for you to use for many after-class tasks from this moment forward. It is, therefore, imperative that you do not lose it, unless you fancy having to take a trip to the library wherein you will not only have to find the book from which the chart has been taken unaided, but will also be required to copy the entirety of the chart out once more."

Tom resisted rolling his eyes at the rapt attention of the people around him. He saw Roldan, a Ravenclaw who sat next to him in most classes, shift in his seat at the aspect of what Tom thought was a meaningless threat of punishment - surely the Professor knew that a Summoning Charm was all that was needed to retrieve a missing object? This, in turn, made Tom wonder as to the number of people in the room who were capable of performing the spell – they hadn't learnt it in class, admittedly, but since when was that a reason not to learn something?

"I know what you're thinking," Roldan said in a hush when Tom turned to him to voice his thoughts. "Not everyone is as prodigious as you."

"Evidently," Tom snorted in amusement, as the rest of the class held the charts in their hands like it was some sort of ancient relic.

Roldan shook his head in exasperation, before indicating towards the left side of the room.

"Why has Alphard been glancing at you more than usual this lesson?" He asked in a hush.

"Perhaps you should ask him that." Tom replied.

The light-haired boy sighed. "I'm sure that would be a more than cheerful conversation with a boy who makes it his business to tell me I'm a worthless wizard at least twice a week." Roldan looked at the boy in question furtively. "Seriously, though, the way he's looking at you, it's like – like he's scared of you, or something."

Tom smirked. "Roldan, you are very perceptive."

"What did you do to him, Tom?" Roldan asked, and Tom wasn't surprised to see that he looked slightly fearful.

"He was being as ridiculous as he normally is." Tom replied quickly, hoping he would brush over it.

Roldan narrowed his eyes. "What, specifically, did he do?"

"He called me his 'mate'," Tom bit out, glaring at the Ravenclaw with heightening intensity.

"Why, in that largely complex brain of yours, does that warrant any form of violence?"

"I was already reeling after that Harold boy almost killed me in the dungeons yesterday, so it was understandable that anything that would further aggravate me would bring me to the end of my tether." He glanced at the clock on the wall – only a few minutes remaining.

"Oh," Roldan said, with a slow nod. "I understand now. Alphard was attempting to _comfort_ you, and you threw it right back in his face."

Tom visibly blanched at the accusatory tone in Roldan's voice. It was unusual for the quiet, well-mannered Ravenclaw who had first become Tom's companion in second year. There was an unwritten rule in their companionship that Tom had grown to expect; Tom could say, and do, as he liked, and Roldan had to accept it.

"Why are you even defending him?" Tom asked harshly, lowering his voice as the Professor walked around the desk. "He's nothing but impolite toward you. You should appreciate someone silencing him for once."

Roldan scoffed and furrowed his eyebrows at Tom.

"But you didn't do it because he bothers other students, you did it because he bothers _you_."

Roldan had always been the good-natured, almost-sycophantic constant in Tom's life, and yet here he was, attempting to reason with Tom.

"How was your weekend?" Tom asked after a long silence, attempting to change the subject.

Roldan sighed obnoxiously loudly, prompting many people to turn towards him in confusion. Tom waited for their attention to subside before addressing the boy again.

He leaned towards the boy and hissed. "What's wrong with you today?" Somewhere in the distance, the bell signaled the end of lesson but his focus was glued intently to Roldan.

"Nothing is wrong," he spat, gathering up his belongings and dumping them unceremoniously into his shoulder bag with a snarl. "Why must you assume something is wrong?"

Tom smirked, leaving the array of parchment and quills untouched upon the desk before him. "Because something is quite clearly wrong, perhaps?"

The light-haired boy slung his bag around his shoulder, making a beeline for the door. Before his feet could touch the threshold of the Arithmancy room, however, he stopped and cast Tom a furtive glance.

"C'mon, Tom. We're going to be late for Divination," he muttered, and something akin to gratification settled in Tom's stomach.

* * *

The week continued in much the same way, much to Tom's chagrin, and by the time Ancient Runes had finished that Friday and lunchtime had begun, Roldan's neurotic behaviour had gone from strength to strength, to the point where Tom felt he had no choice but ambush him after class.

"Speak up now, Roldan, or so help me I will not be responsible for my actions," Tom held Roldan up against the wall of the seventh-floor corridor with his wand pressed against his stomach.

"Well?" Tom continued, as Roldan made no attempt to reply.

Roldan muttered incomprehensibly under his breath, though Tom felt sure he heard a string of profanities protrude from his mouth. He held his hands up, "Fine, I'll tell you."

Tom quickly dropped his wand to his side, letting Roldan adjust to having his personal space back. He eyed the boy in front of him with curiosity and couldn't help but feel a slight remorse for his actions as he noticed how uncomfortable Roldan was looking, swiping his hands through his hair and swaying from one foot to the other. The tactility was over in a second, however, as Tom realised that his actions had prompted Roldan to tell him what he had asked for – and therefore had to have been good for something.

"But before I tell you anything, I want to make some things very clear," Roldan started, rubbing his hands together. "And you're not allowed to interrupt me now I've started either."

Roldan gulped nervously. "You are undoubtedly the most frustrating idiot I have ever met. You're rude, your over confidence is intolerable, and you are always expecting me to be the sponge who just soaks it all up and take it on the chin."

Roldan leant forward and jabbed Tom on the chest. Tom laughed out loud. Was Roldan trying to intimidate him?

"It's not funny," Roldan said exasperatedly, his finger still lingering on his chest.

"Absolutely not," Tom replied, but knew he was fooling no one.

"What is actually wrong with you, Tom? What is so twisted in here?" His finger moved abruptly from his chest to his temple. "You have always been this way. I am sick and I am tired and…" he withdrew his finger to rest limply at his side and Tom was relieved the physical contact had ended. "I'm sick – really sick," he finished lamely. He looked defeated.

"You're sick?" Tom arched an eyebrow.

"I'll be resembling Dippet before long," Roldan confirmed. "Some people, they live full and prosperous lives, and some people just die – " he clicked his fingers " – just like that."

Tom suddenly felt very cold and clasped his hands behind his back to stop them from shaking. The prospect of dying, of ceasing to exist, was not something Tom ever enjoyed entertaining. Roldan smiled, almost in opposition to how Tom was feeling, and he thought bizarrely that Roldan might have instead revelled at the prospect.

"Aren't you scared?" The childish words tumbled from his mouth before he had a chance to save face. It was morbid, but he had to know, had to understand how it felt.

Roldan appeared deep in thought before he surprised Tom and shook his head.

"No," he said. "I'm not scared of anything, not now. I feel so numb to it all. It is as I said – some people die, just like some people grow up to have respectable careers and have children, and some people choose not. In a way, it's nice to not have to make those choices."

Tom could not fathom that lack of fear. He could not imagine the black void of death and be able to associate it with relief and acceptance. Roldan did not look like he was dying, he was a healthy fifteen-year old boy, or _had_ been. If it could happen to Roldan…

"You're stupid, Roldan. Would you not like to live forever and make every choice? Leave no stone unturned?"

"No man can live forever, Tom." Roldan shook his head softly, and for the first time in their conversation Tom thought he looked sad. "No man should have to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom Riddle is such a difficult character to write. A psychopathic teenager, with no ability to love due to the circumstances of his conception, struggling with a strange kind of emotional disability. Roldan summed it up well when he pointed to Tom’s brain and asked, “What is so twisted in here?” Any comments would be delightful.


	3. The Similarities We Don't See

_Our differences are less important than the similarities we don't see._

* * *

 Roldan didn't show up for breakfast the next day, or the day after that, and nobody seemed to notice. Except Tom, of course, who knew he was hiding away in the Ravenclaw dormitories, probably still trying to convince himself that dying was _fine_. Tom liked this arrangement; he did not want to see the sick boy. The fact he had some sort of terminal illness made him uncomfortable, and Tom did not like to feel uncomfortable. Tom did not know what to say to him anymore and Tom did not like to be left without words.

Not that it had anything to do with anything now. Friday was another day, one that began with an unusual amount of sunshine and heat for a December day, and one that would surely end with the light of the full moon.

It was lunchtime, and Tom had managed to sneak a sandwich from the Great Hall to enjoy the good weather. The grounds seemed to be desolate, and Tom found himself enjoying the solitude. Roldan would've no doubt ruined the peace had he been here. He would've likely started a conversation about the new Dream Analysis homework for Divination. Tom would've told him about the dream he had the previous night about being stabbed to death by King Canute for not being able to control the tide, and how it reminded him of the Muggle History lessons that he had endured. Roldan would've laughed at the oddity of the dream, before asking what Tom thought the most interesting form of death would be, at which point Tom would confess that he did not want to die, and Roldan would punch his arm full-force and tell him that he was in no uncertain terms being stupid, and Tom would have been _furious_.

_If Roldan were here..._

Tom shook his head to rid himself of the ridiculous thought. He chucked the remainder of his barely eaten sandwich into the Black lake, leant back on the grass and closed his eyes. He faintly heard the rippling of water, and in his mind's eye he imagined the Giant Squid's tentacles encompassing the food and taking it into the watery depths of the lake. How long had the Giant Squid lived, he wondered? Infinitely longer than any witch or wizard, perhaps?

"Is it comfortable?" Tom's eyes flew open, half-expecting to see Roldan. He was met, instead, with the figure of Harold looming over him, arms folded and blocking out the sun.

"It's bearable," Tom replied, propping himself up to get a better look at the grounds. They were still empty. He was truly alone with his would-be murderer.

"Would you mind if I joined you?" Harold asked politely, gesturing to the patch of grass on the right side of Tom. He had avoided sitting there, himself, as it was half-cast in the shadow of the castle.

"Be my guest." Tom replied shortly, before lying back down and closing his eyes once more.

"Don't mind if I do," Harold chuckled, but his laughter seemed to phase out once he noticed that Tom was not joining in.

He filled the silence, instead, by whistling an unfamiliar tune. Harold spoke up once more.

"Do you have any classes this afternoon?"

Tom sat up before answering. "No, I don't."

"Me either," Harold said with a small grin. "I thought you'd be the type to be cooped up in the library during free hours, if you don't mind me saying."

Tom very much wished to tell him that he did mind that he was even speaking at all. "I would, usually, but I'm – "

"I understand." Harold cut him off, and the temptation to curse him to within an inch of his life grew. The bespectacled boy turned towards him. "Hey, you're friends with that Roldan boy, right?"

"I wouldn't exactly call him a friend," Tom frowned.

"Well, Avery was telling me that you sit together in class, and talk, and occasionally do homework together. That's like a friend, isn't it?"

Tom chose not to reply. He thought friendship was a lot more complicated than that. He watched others engage in friendships. There were complicated aspects like affection, loyalty and kindness which he could not, and did not want to, comprehend.

"What's he like?" Harold asked. This should not have been a difficult question, but it was. For all the time he had spent with the boy, Tom had never taken the time to consider who he was as a person. He had never seen it as necessary – at least, not until this _riveting_ conversation.

"Naïve, sycophantic - but smart though, occasionally." Tom shrugged nonchalantly.

"Sounds like the perfect friend for you," Harold smirked, and the two fell into silence.

Tom let his gaze linger on Harold. He had always struggled with reading people; most people, it seemed, could look at a person's face and know how they were feeling, but for some reason this did not come naturally to Tom. As with many things that Tom realised he was not good at, he had sought solace in books, countless books that he had spent countless hours consuming in an attempt to ease his lack of understanding. It had been helpful in some ways but served mostly to remind him that he simply was not good at something, and so he did not like to dwell on it too often.

Harold's mouth was upturned in merriment and his nose had scrunched slightly in amusement, and yet his eyes stared at the middle distance coldly. Tom's discernment of this left him confused, not simply because reading people's faces was foreign to him. As Tom's eyes bore into Harold's, he was struck by the oddity of how steely and stony he appeared beneath his apparent enthusiasm and the jovial nature of his words. Harold's distant stare suddenly took a sharp, steely focus on Tom.

"Can I help you?" Harold asked. His smirk had gone.

"I doubt it," Tom replied coolly, his eyes still lingering on Harold's now emotionless face.

"Where's he from?" Harold asked, and Tom's mind whirled before realising that Harold was referring to Roldan yet again.

"I'm not sure," Tom replied. Genuinely, he did not know where Roldan was from. He knew he was a pureblood, he knew he was British, though - with a surname like Aguado - his family had likely been Spanish originally, but he could have been a _Scouser_ for all Tom knew or cared.

"He seems quite reserved," Harold mused. Tom wanted to know why he cared so much but could not summon enough interest to ask.

"He doesn't like a lot of attention," Tom said.

"Good people never do." Harold said, bitterly. He glanced at his watch. "Y'know, I have detention with Merrythought after dinner. Not bad for a first week, eh?" He looked incredibly amused by this. Tom, who had never been amused by nor had a detention, could not understand why.

"What did you do?" Tom asked. Professor Merrythought was usually a rather lax example of how teachers usually acted, not known for handing out punishments unless absolutely necessary.

" _Blasphemy!_ " Harold spoke in a high-pitched voice, trying and failing to sound like the elderly witch. " _You may have been able to speak like that at home, Mr. Smith, but things operate very differently here at Hogwarts!_ " He shook his head with an exasperated sigh. "I only called Matthew Selve a fucking idiot."

Tom couldn't help but agree with him in that respect; Selve could barely cast a disarming spell without trouble. How he had managed to get into the house of the cunning was a lost cause, unless his stupidity was one big charade. Now _that_ would be impressive.

"What did Selve do to warrant such an insult?" Tom asked curiously.

"He was saying all sorts of things to Scarlett Rockwood," he sniffed. "I'm not even sure I can repeat them."

Tom vaguely remembered that Scarlett was a sixth year Ravenclaw with blonde hair who'd had a brief stint with Norman Goyle, a Slytherin who wasn't necessarily prone to being inconspicuous when it came to who he was courting. Scarlett had been his favourite topic of conversation in the Slytherin Common Room since their courtship had ended, presumably on bad terms, with Norman frequently more than keen to reveal details of the Scarlett he had known.

"Perhaps his words suited her," Tom replied brazenly, before adding, "In Slytherin, we don't usually behave in ways that warrant detention. When we do, we don't get _caught._ Perhaps you should try to remember that next time you do something unbecoming in front of a Professor."

"Oh," Harold looked pointedly at Tom's prefect badge. His eyes narrowed slightly, and Tom tried in vain to discern any meaning from behind his eyes that might serve him. "Do you not ever get in trouble?"

Tom gathered up his belongings, deciding he had had enough of the barrage of questions. He suddenly felt very suspicious of Harold, with his strange eyes and his lack of conventional emotions.

"I have a Divinations essay to complete," he said shortly. As he walked up to the Entrance Hall, he did not bother to glance behind him to see whether he had offended Harold, his irritation for the boy growing more and more with every step.

"I'll see you around, Tom." Harold said unsurely, before whistling that same unfamiliar tune that Tom would later curse him for, as it attached itself to his mind for the duration of the day.

Before Tom had the chance to enter the Great Hall that evening for dinner, Stephen Avery had bombarded him. He was wearing elegant dress robes and his usually curtain-like hair had been slicked back.

"Aren't you coming to Slughorn's party? He'll be insufferable if his favourite pupil doesn't show up!"

Tom could have sworn. He had forgotten all about it. He had to attend, whether he truly wanted to or not. Slughorn's parties were an excellent opportunity to mingle with the most respected witches and wizards both in Britain and internationally. He could not pass up opportunities such as these, not when they were made so readily available to him despite his unknown family status.

"Indeed I am. I'll meet you in the Dungeons in ten minutes, Stephen."

Tom strode away quickly, weaving between students and trying to remember where he had put his dress robes. He entered the fifth-year dormitory in no time, slightly out of breath. He ignored Black, who was already wearing his expensive-looking robes. He jumped when Tom entered, before trying to pass it off as an intentional movement. Tom thought he had never looked more pathetic. He glanced at the clock and inwardly cursed. _Five minutes to get ready_.

When Tom eventually joined Stephen in the Common Room, he could not help but notice the attention he was getting from the students gathered there. A group of fifth year girls had paused their game of Exploding Snap simply to watch him walk from one end of the room to the other. Tom forced a polite smile.

"You could at least try to tone it down," Stephen joked. "Boys like you make it so much more difficult for the rest of us."

"How do you propose I _'tone it down'_?" Tom asked, amused.

"I don't know, maybe next time don't comb your hair or…" Tom let Stephen speak but stopped listening to him. He knew he was handsome; people had told him enough times.

The walk to Professor Slughorn's office was a short one, so Tom did not have to endure Stephen's brand of small talk for too long.

"Tom, m'boy!" Slughorn called out to him a record two seconds after his entrance, completely ignoring Avery, who mumbled something about not being old enough to drink. The young Slytherin was whisked away to a group of famous intellects almost immediately. As much as Tom disliked Slughorn for the constant parties that he was forced to attend and the way in which he often eyed him like a coin collector would a shiny new piece, he could not help but appreciate the company that such parties bade him keep. Everyone, from introverted authors to mild-mannered curse-breakers, adorned Professor Slughorn's address book and a certain admiration had to be innate within all the students that attended for Slughorn's skill in associating with _only the best_.

"Ladies and gentleman, I'd very much like to introduce you to arguably the brightest spark of this generation - " Slughorn was continuing to talk, but Tom could no longer hear. He was unceremoniously pushed into the limelight and was having his hand grappled by every _somebody_ within its vicinity: a Mr. Todd Cherry insisted it was simply a delight to see him and affirmed that it was in his best interests to draw his attention to his own best-selling book on political success before he was snatched away by a tall, curly-haired woman whose name he could not recall, but insisted that it was her own magical formulae for shampoo that had won her business five annual awards within the last five years; a surly-looking man whose nose seemed to gravitate towards the ceiling was next to introduce himself as a "Gregory Pohe, such a fine man to be introduced to such as yourself is sure to have heard of my breakthrough research in the potion-making field of – "

But Tom was not to known exactly what potion-making field Gregory Pohe was affiliated to, as Slughorn had hurriedly escorted him over to a straddle of students, at the forefront of which was...

"Harold Smith, my good fellow!" Slughorn's voice was as loud as ever, and Tom's silent prayers that Harold would not hear the Professor's callings went unyielded. "Here, here...come stand here – that's right, beside Mr. Riddle with you, Harold! Now, lads, can you not see the similarities?"

Tom turned to stare at Harold, inwardly dumbfounded by the Professor's accusations. He supposed that they did look alike in some senses – they were both rather pale with dark hair and dark eyes, and both _happened_ to be standing with their hands firmly behind their backs – but Tom failed to see the entertaining notion that Slughorn evidently did as he chuckled, watching them both regard each other.

"It's not just the look of the two of you either," Slughorn said, whisking a glass of sherry from a waitress as she passed and hiccupping after consumption. "Are you certain you're not related? There's an _aura_ or _something_ about the two of you – oh, speaking of auras!" He interrupted his own speech suddenly, glancing around the room with his eyes squinted. "I must find your Divination Professor and ward her away from Mr. Black again – I do _not_ want a repeat of last year's fiasco. Isn't that right, Tom?"

Remembering Alphard's fear as he was told that he would soon be an outcast in his family by a very drunk Professor Lawry at Slughorn's Yule Party last year, Tom nodded his head in agreement. His mind and eyes were still fixated on Harold, who had navigated toward Scarlett Rockwood on the dance floor. It did not bode well with him that the two should be compared. As far as he was concerned, Harold was everything he was not - crass, extroverted and, if his subsequent dancing was anything to go by, an utter fool.

Tom started walking towards a group of older Slytherins, amongst whom was Avery, who appeared to have procured an alcoholic beverage despite his earlier mumblings. Tom was not surprised – Slughorn had always offered them a little _"something"_ at his dinner parties, and if that happened to make them a little merry then he would titter and remark _"boys will be boys"_ with a wink.

"Hello Tom," Stephen smiled at him as he approached.

The boys, who had been gathered in a circle, parted to let Tom enter. Most offered Tom a greeting. Some, Tom was amused to see, were too intimidated by his presence to talk.

"We were just speaking about Harold Smith," Goyle said, gesturing to the boy who was still dancing with the blonde-haired witch. "I don't like him."

"You don't like him because he's dancing with Scarlett," Stephen laughed. "He seems fine to me – a good sort, if you catch my drift."

"He was rather impressive in Defence Against the Dark Arts," Lestrange piped up, sending Tom a furtive glance. "Merrythought was impressed until he started mouthing off to Selve."

Selve started to shrink away from the attention he was getting at the mention of his name.

"What was it you said that made Harold angry again, Selve?" Stephen asked curiously.

"I was just having some banter with Scarlett, is all, told her I'd see her at the _mott shop_ Saturday," Selve shrugged, flushing red with embarrassment

"That – " Goyle laughed " – is a sound assessment of her character. Nice one, Selve."

"Wouldn't that make you the _ponce_ then, Goyle?" Stephen asked innocently. Goyle's laughter - which had been deafening - stopped abruptly, drowned out by the laughter of the other boys in the group.

"Gentlemen, please." Tom started, walking through the group of boys to pick up an empty crystal glass. _Another one for the collection._ He enjoyed the way all the boys immediately stopped laughing and kept their eyes intently focused on him. He tapped the side of his glass with his wand and it steadily filled with water. "This uncouth behaviour is unbecoming of _all_ of you. Is it any wonder Harold thinks it is appropriate if this is how you are all acting?"

Nobody answered. _Nobody dared_ , Tom thought in amusement.

"It is _your_ responsibility to ensure that he acts in a way that we would all expect of a Slytherin," Tom addressed them all. Some looked thoughtful, others nodded in agreement, and all of them looked over at the subject of their conversation. He had stopped dancing now; he was sat with an arm resting casually on Scarlett's shoulders. He leant in and whispered something to the witch, who smiled and blushed in apparent embarrassment. Tom felt the whole display was sickening.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Tom raised his empty glass by means of farewell, intending on finding some reputable alumni to have a stimulating conversation with. He tapped his glass again, and this time it shrunk. He slipped it into his pocket; no one had noticed his casual thievery.

As the evening wore on, and the clock was approaching midnight, Professor Slughorn had consumed enough sherry to have offered everyone in his path a dance, and Tom had thought it within his best interest to take his leave before he was forced to tango with his less-than-sober teacher.

He walked slowly towards the Slytherin Common Room. He wasn't tired and was half-heartedly deciding on which book to read when he heard the distinct sound of footsteps behind him.

"Tom!"

Tom turned around to find Harold Smith. He seemed slightly dishevelled, and Tom supposed this was because of all the dancing he had spied him doing. He nodded by way of reply, as Harold fell into step beside him.

"If there's one thing I hate," Harold said, catching his breath, "it's parties, and pretending for four hours straight that I'm goddamned enjoying myself."

Tom paused in his walk to let the daunting aspect of the truth in Slughorn's observation wash over him. _Perhaps they were not so different after all._

"What the hell have you stopped for, Tom? Did you drop a knut?" Harold asked, glancing behind him when he realised Tom was no longer walking.

_Or perhaps they were._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom has just been informed that he is similar to Harold, though apparently others have to be intoxicated to notice it. This is a shorter chapter, but it covers everything I had planned for Chapter 3. Hope you enjoyed. On to the next!


	4. An Unforgivable Deception

_Sometimes you have to do something unforgivable just to go on living._

* * *

 That morning was a cold one, and Tom predicted snow as he looked skywards at the ceiling of the Great Hall which revealed only the white clouds beyond. He looked around at his housemates: Gregory Fawley was slumped over the table, flinching every time he moved; Stephen was nursing his head with his hands, taking tentative sips of coffee; Oisin Zabini was shrinking in his seat, trying in vain to conceal the fact that he was missing _half a head of hair_. Tom had inquired as to why he had not simply used magic to grow some more hair for himself, but Oisin had merely shaken his head and mumbled something silly in his heavy Italian accent about how he was convinced his magic was no longer working.

Tom was stoic about the whole situation. He had heard the ruckus of the after party to Slughorn's gathering, but he had not joined the celebrations. A simple silencing charm, a book and Tom had concluded his evening pleasantly. Curiously, before Tom had drowned out the party, he had heard Harold's loud and obnoxious voice over the sound of the other familiar voices. They had all been so jovial with Harold, so chummy, but Tom disliked it. He disliked that something as simple at alcohol could apparently cement friendship. Harold was an absolute fool, and yet housemates that Tom almost _respected_ who had been impaired by alcohol had fallen into the trap of communicating with him. Tom placed the newspaper in his hand on the table, no longer able to concentrate on the words he had been reading. _Where was Harold?_ Tom could not see him at the Slytherin table. Tom inwardly kicked himself for the thought. He returned to the article he had been reading – _'The Intricacies of Applying Potions to Medicine'_ by Gregory Pohe, the man whose introduction had been disrupted last night.

"Have you noticed where Harold is sat today?" Fawley asked, looking pained. He pointed towards the Ravenclaw table. "Looks quite cosy with Scarlett, doesn't he Norman?"

Norman Goyle stared bleary-eyed over to the aforementioned table. "He's welcome to her, the harlot." He snarled, rubbing at his eyes.

Tom cast a long look in Harold's direction. _This is where he had been hiding._ He seemed so open about his want to be in a relationship with Scarlett, touching her arm and laughing with her and her friends. But Tom saw something else, something tweaked in his manner – he was mechanical. He was laughing only when she did, whispering sweet nothings in her ear with eyes that did not display caring, but nonchalance. This was not the behaviour of someone who had at long-last found partner material. Tom recognised the act well; it was one he performed on occasion when keen on getting what he wanted, though _never_ in a romantic manner.

"What do you think of Harold, Tom?" Stephen asked keenly. Tom knew why such a question had arisen – the people that surrounded him could not think for themselves. They thought, instead, with his words.

"A little crass, perhaps," Tom said, glancing back at the newspaper. "Excuse my lack of enthusiasm but I have more interesting things to occupy my thoughts."

"Any news on Grindelwald?" Stephen asked eagerly upon noticing that Tom was holding a newspaper. "There are such _morbid_ things I have been hearing about his torture techniques! You know, he implores his followers to not stop until their guts – "

"Not now, Stephen." Fawley groaned, nursing his head with one of his hand whilst the other hit the other boy around the head.

"What would daddy dearest say if he saw you now, Greg?" Stephen asked, smirking.

"Not now, Stephen." Fawley repeated. Tom often forgot who Gregory Fawley's father was – the _Minister for Magic_ , no less. Fawley, who was slumped across the table, over-indulging on alcohol and looking unkempt, was the opposite of the Muggle, Etonian politicians who Tom had grown up idealising. He considered the current Prime Minister's son – Rodolphus Churchill, well-bred and aristocratic – and could not help but notice the distinct lack of similarities between him and the boy sitting across from him.

"I'll, er, tell you later, Tom, about Grindelwald." Stephen said, eyeing Fawley for appraisal. He got nothing but a glare.

"Alphard Black was ambushed by Professor Lawry again last night." Myles Bustrode said suddenly. The surrounding boys laughed. "She told him some fancy tish-tosh about him having no chance of getting back in once he was out. Broke his heart, it did. I swear I heard him crying in the first-floor bathroom this morning."

"Now, now. There's no need for idle gossiping." Tom said, concealing a smirk at the way his words silenced their previous laughter. "Though I would gladly make an exception for Alphard Black – " Tom's voice got louder to account for the preceding laughter and he saw from his peripheral vision Alphard glance at the gang of sixth and seventh years " – the worthless wizard that he is."

There was a sudden silence as Alphard rose from his seat, visibly trembling. He stopped beside Tom and whispered in a voice that quivered: "I'm more of a wizard than you'll ever be, _Riddle_."

Perhaps it was the emphasis on the muggle surname in front of a house full of witches and wizards whose name meant _everything_ to them, perhaps it was the way that Alphard imagined himself better than him – Tom did not know which made him want to curse the boy more as he turned his back on Tom and flounced out of the Great Hall. The entire Slytherin table shook with the silence that Alphard's words had created as they stared in fear at Tom's furiously composed face.

The moment was punctured by the arrival of the owl post; Tom sought out the owl that he frequently used and anticipation replaced any discomfort he had felt at Alphard's words. He would, of course, be duly _dealt with_ later and there would be little contest against Tom after this was done. The owl landed in front of Tom gracefully and stood poised in a very elegant manner, something Tom had been drawn to upon selecting a suitable owl to deliver letters for him. He would have bought it if he could afford it but, alas, it belonged to Hogwarts. He eagerly took the letter from the owl.

_Dear Mr. Riddle,_

_It will be with great delight that I impart upon you knowledge that may act as comfort or otherwise finality to you, but am yet forced to act with caution in imparting such matters of importance by the medium of letter. Therefore, I think it will be wise to meet with you face-to-face..._

Tom, who had half-forgotten that he had been awaiting this letter regarding his family origins, berated himself for being so distracted by trivial things. Alphard's use of his muggle surname with such malice still rung in his ears, a coarse reminder of his intense need to discover _who he was_. The letter continued making excuses for the lack of relevant details that Tom had anticipated, stopping abruptly at the end with a location. Tom knew it well; it was a five-minute walk from the Orphanage. _Muggle London_. Muggle London, of course, because the person of whom he had been corresponding with was a muggle by the name of Peter Daniels. Tom had been interested to discover the method that the Owl Sorting Office had used to ease correspondence between muggles and wizards. A bit of magic and a muggle letter could look like a wizard's letter and vice versa. Tom had discovered Peter Daniels name at the library local to his orphanage when researching the one lead that he had on his origins – Riddle Manor, located somewhere in Yorkshire of all places. Peter had assured him that he had once been the caretaker of the house and gardens within the first letter and that his father, Thomas Riddle, and he were still acquainted. Peter had expressed his hope that, with effort, a union could be struck up between father and son. Tom didn't want to strike up a union, of course. He wanted to know why, he wanted to know what had happened. He wanted to know the events surrounding his birth. He wanted to know why he had left her, his mother, to die in the pit of misery that she must have done, to turn up homeless at an Orphanage's doorstep to beg for admittance. More than all of that, he wanted Peter Daniels to be wrong about where Tom had come from, he wanted it to be a coincidence that another man bore his name.

"Are you alright there, Tom?" Ramus Lestrange asked, shuffling to sit next to Tom as Goyle stood up to leave to lie down. He eyed the letter with curiosity. "Did you get some bad news?"

"Not at all. It's just a letter to let me know that my subscription to the _Academic Wizard_ is expiring soon." Tom replied.

"Professor Slughorn was right, wasn't he? Bright spark indeed..." Lestrange shook his head with a smile, before bidding him a goodbye and heading off to catch up on essays.

Tom could not understand that anything about his alleged father - a mere muggle - would be important enough for someone to seek face-to-face contact, and yet the desire to at least know who he was overpowered any misgivings that he had about his correspondence with this stranger. Tucking the letter into his pocket, he was about to rise from the table and say his polite goodbyes before Harold arrived and gave him a hearty pat on the back.

"Has Scarlett gotten bored of your riveting conversation already?" Goyle asked snidely when Harold sat down in the spot Lestrange had vacated.

"It's not important whether she's bored of me, Norman. You know, her father is the Head of the Department of Mysteries. What a _fascinating_ girl."

Tom immediately understood why Harold had been consorting with Scarlett, and so did Goyle who opened and closed his mouth pathetically before collapsing into a defeated silence. Fawley rolled his eyes; he, of course, had never had to make associates. For the first time, Tom understood why Harold may have been sorted into Slytherin.

As Tom set off on his walk toward the library after breakfast, he pondered what it would have been like to arrive at Hogwarts as his pureblood classmates did, with everything handed to them and no need to prove themselves. Tom hadn't found it challenging to assert his power over them – he found it to be much in the same way that Tom had made the older children at the Orphanage fearful of him. They were intimidated by his magical power and his intelligence, and any initial attempts to bully him had fallen flat quite quickly once they realised it did not affect him.

"Hello Tom," Tom's pondering was interrupted by a gravelly voice. Tom froze and turned, although every muscle in his body protested. Roldan looked awful, his hair looked unwashed and his forehead literally dripped with sweat, and Tom instinctively wanted to take a step back, but resisted out of politeness.

"Hello Roldan," Tom grimaced as the boy walked closer to engage him in conversation.

"I was going to go out to the courtyard to work on our Arithmancy assignment. Do you want to - ?"

"I've already finished it," Tom cut him off. "Goodbye, Roldan."

Tom left hastily. It wasn't until he had rounded the corner out of sight that he let out the breath he didn't realise he was keeping in. He paused to gather himself, straightened his robes and plastered a smile on his face just in time to see a group of fourth year Ravenclaws rounding a corner.

"Hello ladies, gentlemen," Tom said.

"Hi Tom!" They chorused.

Tom set off quickly, keen on inspecting the details of the letter once more and searching intently for his origins in the library as he so often did during his spare time. Perhaps this would be the day when he found that he had a wizarding background – how else would he have gotten into Slytherin, a house for only those who were pure of blood?

As he made his way towards the library, he thought of the only sentence he had received from the Sorting Hat at the Sorting Ceremony and how this had brought alive more than ever his want to know his families background: " _Your inheritance speaks louder than anything else, Tom Marvolo Riddle_." The words, so simply put, carried weight for Tom that had not left for all these five years. In hindsight, it seemed to him that the hat was attempting to inform him that he belonged to an old pureblood family like the ones that so frequently entered Slytherin – Malfoy, Lestrange, Black and the like. There had been times when he had desperately sought to seek confrontation with the hat once more, for clarification, and yet this plan had fallen to nothing at the aspect of seeking entrance to the heavily-guarded Headmaster's office. And so it was up to him to find out for himself; he had been most unwilling to involve anybody else in his search and had only had to use the muggle from which the letter had been sent out of necessity. _That's all muggles are good use for_ , Tom thought, _necessity_. The library doors drew closer and closer and Tom could not help but feel anticipation that today – unlike the countless days before – would be the day when he would finally seek the information that he needed. He could not afford to be pessimistic; the aspect of belonging to a wizarding stock meant everything to him. He needed to find something that meant he didn't have to meet the muggle, to confirm what the Sorting Hat had alluded to.

After an hour of searching, however, that anticipation had faded, replaced only be the cold, hard truth that Tom had wanted to deny – there were no Riddle families in the wizarding world, and there were no family trees in the library archive that suggested that he was part of them. He was frustrated at himself; he always prided himself in the discovery of new information, and it was this fact that made the idea of him being a mudblood whose father lived in some manor in Yorkshire more likely. If Tom Riddle couldn't find it, nobody could, as far as he was concerned. He would have to reply to Peter Daniels, he would have to admit defeat…

"Hello Tom."

Tom, startled at company in the otherwise desolate library, turned quickly, but it was only Harold. Tom cast a silent charm on the book he was reading to conceal it, to save any awkward conversations.

"How long have you been standing there?" Tom asked. He did not enjoy people watching him without him realising.

"Long enough," he replied, smirking. Tom failed to see what was amusing.

"What do you want?" Tom asked shortly, ignoring Harold's last comment. Harold continued to smile inanely.

"I'm here to study and I'm going to sit here," he gestured to the chair opposite Tom. Tom looked pointedly at all the empty tables in the library hoping Harold would take the hint, but Harold either did not take the hint or did not want to. The two boys sat in silence for a long time, Tom trying to maintain his focus on the book but becoming more distracted than he should have been by the older boy. Tom glanced at him inconspicuously beyond the edge of his book. He appeared to be concentrating quite intently on whichever essay he was working on; he looked tired, his eyes were dull and lifeless, but then Tom could not remember them being any other way. His eyes were like nothing Tom had ever seen before; they looked like they ought to have belonged to a corpse.

Tom shook his head as if it would help him refocus on the book in his hand – _Which Wizarding Family?_ – but even though he was staring intently at the words in the book, all he could see was Harold's lifeless eyes swimming before his vision. It was unnervingly distracting.

Harold looked up suddenly, and Tom looked over the book towards him. His lip curved upwards as if amused that he had caught Tom staring. In a heartbeat, the book had been jostled from Tom's hand and Harold was tapping his own wand on the cover.

"I didn't think you were truly reading a Third Year Arithmancy book…" Harold said triumphantly. "What's the big secret, Tom? You don't know who you are? Nobody does, not with a name like Riddle. That's not a secret."

Tom reached out to snatch back his book; he was so shocked by the audacity of Harold that he could do nothing but glare at him. He was speechless and Tom did not like to be left speechless. _What a bastard._

"But I do," Harold said in a rush. "I know who you are."

"How could you possibly know?" Tom asked. Harold _had_ to be toying with him.

"Magic," Harold said simply, with one of his cold smiles.

"Let me make this clear," Tom said, propping himself up on the table with his arms as Harold mimicked him. "You've never heard of the Riddle family just as I've never heard of the Smith family. If you're here to laugh at my expense, I suggest you leave – or I will make you leave," his fingers grasped around his wand threateningly. Harold observed his actions with interest, but was not half as intimidated as Tom had hoped he'd be. His eyes bore into Tom's for a long while, their faces only inches apart, before Harold abruptly sat down.

"I'm leaving," Harold said, kicking the chair back as he stood. He was no longer smiling as he picked up the papers and books he had been using, shoving them haphazardly into his school bag.

As Tom watched Harold walk away, he had to fight the urge to curse him. That would just make things more complicated than they needed to be. Harold was not worth it – he was such a _fool_ , and Tom had no time for people of whom it was difficult to discern seriousness.

* * *

 

Tom made a point of avoiding Harold like the plague after their encounter in the library, something that his housemates began to notice after a few days. They reacted to Tom's disdain for the boy by keeping their own distance from Harold. They feared any reaction from Tom due to any sort of association. Conversations had begun to swirl in Slytherin circles about Harold's odd behaviour, his unusual approach to most everything and –

" – his eyes!" Walburga Black was whispering to her friend as they passed Tom in the corridor on the way to afternoon class. "I've never seen such dull-looking eyes. Oh Betty, he is certainly handsome, if a bit unconventionally so, but – really now – those eyes. I don't know how Scarlett can keep a conversation with him with those eyes staring back at her!"

Tom was torn between celebrating his ability to have noticed a human characteristic to the same extent as his peers, and mortification that it meant that he had to compare his deduction of other people to a _teenage girl_. Walburga was Alphard's older sister, a seventh year. The physical similarities were remarkable, but where Walburga was a reasonably talented witch, Alphard was not a reasonably talented wizard. Tom knew they had a younger brother, Cygnus, who Walburga clearly doted upon as she would talk with her female friends about him for hours on end while the Slytherin boys would shake their heads, apparently mystified by a female's obsession with small children.

"Hello Tom," Stephen smiled as he fell in to step next to the taller boy. "I didn't see you at lunch. Transfiguration?"

"Indeed," said Tom. " _My favourite_."

"Don't let the old coot get you down, Tom," Stephen laughed. "You're still the best in the school at the subject – well, at any subject, really. Dumbledore is just jealous that you're on track to break his record with your outstanding OWL scores."

Tom silently wished that were true but knew the truth lay in Dumbledore's suspicions that had persisted since the first time they had met. Tom had learnt a valuable lesson that day about the value of outward appearances. He hated Dumbledore for it; life had been so much easier for Tom when he could simply say whatever popped into his mind at any given time. Stephen could do it – he often said the most benign and most outrageous things whenever he fancied with little repercussion – but when Tom considered what his own unfiltered response would be to enduring a class taught by Professor Dumbledore, he inwardly seethed at how unfair it all was.

"Well, this is me," Stephen interrupted his thoughts. "Apparently Merrythought is finally going to teach us all about the Unforgivables. Not the actual curses, of course, just the theory. When you see me at dinner this evening I will theoretically know how to torture someone to insanity – "

"But only so you know what to expect if you happen upon a dark wizard in the unholiest part of Knockturn Alley – " Goyle poked his face over Stephen's shoulder, making him jump slightly.

"Hold that thought, Tom, it might help you get through two hours of Dumbledore." Stephen wiggled his eyebrows absurdly before shoving Goyle into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

"I don't know what you could be referring to," Tom replied innocently while Stephen was still in earshot.

* * *

 

"Roldan, you are doing very well but this particular spell requires a softer jab of the wand. A little like this," Tom watched, unamused, as the eccentric Professor started making dainty stabbing motions with his wand. "Think of it as if you're threatening the mouse that if it doesn't turn into a vase, there will be big trouble." He moved his wand some more and delighted a crowd of Gryffindors in the back row who all began to laugh and whoop as Dumbledore succeeded in transfiguring Roldan's mouse into an ornate red and gold vase. "Do you understand?"

To Roldan's credit, he did not look at all as if he understood, but he still nodded his head fervently, undoubtedly attempting to get the man to take his attention elsewhere. Fortunately for Roldan, it worked – unfortunately for Tom, he was Dumbledore's next victim.

"What a lovely vase, Tom," Dumbledore picked up the black and silver vase Tom had transfigured half-an-hour ago to inspect. "Five points to Slytherin."

"Thank-you, sir," Tom dipped his head politely. Dumbledore's words were pleasant, but Tom knew well enough when someone was acting, and the knowledge left an unsavoury taste in his mouth.

When Tom entered the Great Hall that night for dinner, two glaring things caught his eye: Stephen was throwing his arms about in enthusiasm while conversing with a large crowd of housemates, who all clung to his every word with rapt attention; and, Professor Dippet was missing from the teacher's table, something which was _highly unusual._ Tom walked quickly toward the table to hear what Stephen was saying.

"Merrythought is being investigated," Stephen announced. "This is big news. She received permission to use the Imperius curse by the Ministry to demonstrate its affects, but I'm not sure that will help her now."

A girl from the lower years who had approached the crowd at the same time as Tom asked. "What's happened?"

"Harold volunteered to demonstrate the curse, volunteered to let Merrythought put him under the influence of a _fucking Unforgivable Curse_. He started raving, positively _raving_ he was, ran out and blew up half the corridor. I don't even know what spell he used to cause that sort of damage."

"I knew he was a bad sort," Goyle said lowly.

"Ah, but that's just it!" Stephen said with relish. "Merrythought is calling accidental magic, but the boy's sixteen! We all saw him hit with that curse, so it seems obvious that it was Merrythought's doing. Harold is saying he remembers nothing, and I believe him – I saw it with my own eyes, and though you may hate him for all that's happening with Scarlett, you saw it too!"

"But that means Merrythought is implicated in an attack on the school," Alphard piped up from the black of the crowd which had gathered around Stephen.

"Exactly! What reason would Merrythought have to blow up half the corridor?"

"There were some Hufflepuffs out there, weren't there?" Goyle asked pointedly.

"I'm not overly fond of that house but I would not go as far as to blow up a corridor because of it," said Lestrange loudly.

"Yes, four Hufflepuff girls were caught up in the explosion, all of them sixth years I think – " Stephen started using his fingers to count them. "Olivia Halsby, Gertrude White, Beryl Richards and…" he thought for a while, squinting as if to remember. "Oh! Caroline Johns."

Their names hung in the air for a while, and Tom wondered if anyone else had made the association between those girls and their muggleborn status.

"Merrythought has been with this school for over forty years," Alphard said quietly, "She taught my parents."

"Yeah, and Harold only joined the school – what? Two weeks ago?" Goyle snorted derisively.

Stephen looked at Norman disdainfully. "Merrythought's husband is German, and there's a lot to be said about _that_ at the moment with Grindelwald making his mark on the world."

The crowd hummed thoughtfully at that statement as if the man's nationality was compelling evidence of a crime.

"What happened to the girls?" Tom asked, curiously.

"St Mungo's," Stephen replied simply. "Dippet is with them now, probably trying to gloss things over with their parents."

"I wouldn't be surprised if the Healers tried to keep him in for observation, the way he's been looking lately," Walburga tittered. Her words were humourous, but she looked shaken by what had happened. Tom shifted his focus back to Stephen.

"Grindelwald will be attacking the ministry within the next month, I just know it. This just doesn't happen at Hogwarts. I've read about…"

While the Slytherin's clung to Stephen's every word, Tom drifted into a thoughtful silence. He could do nothing but entertain the notion that all the victims had been muggleborns. That would have been enough motivation for him – hypothetically, of course. He was sure that any investigation would yield the same conclusion. The only mystery that remained was who the motivation belonged to – Harold Smith, an unknown Slytherin sixth year, or Professor Galetea Merrythought, the respected Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at one of the most renowned magical schools in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. I am very happy to now be getting to delve deeper into the plot.  
> As always, any reviews would be delightful.


	5. The Loss of His Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have edited the past three chapters slightly to add more context to side characters. Harold's POV for the first half of this chapter, hope you enjoy.

_What does it mean to gain to whole world but lose your soul?_

* * *

 "Mr Smith, I am certain by now you realise why you are here."

If he had not known better he would not have believed in souls. Even belonging to a world where everything was magical, souls seemed such an extensively mystical concept. And yet, here he sat, one eighth of a soul, trying desperately to act like a whole soul. It had not necessarily been difficult to compensate for the fact that he was fractured – many years of coexistence with Harry had given him all the tools he needed to make fools of those around him. He'd added just a little extra personality than the inherently boring Harry Potter, to ensure this.

"My name is Auror Figgins and I am from the Auror Department of the Ministry of Magic. I'm here in the Headmaster's office of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry regarding an investigation into an event which happened earlier today." Auror Figgins was a plump man with rosy cheeks, sitting in stark contrast with other Aurors he had met.

"At your request, and since you are without a magical guardian you have been joined by a representative from the school – Professor Dumbledore – who will act as your guardian for the purpose of this interview and investigation," he paused, turning over the piece of parchment in front of him as if he was reading from a list. "If at any point you or he feel uncomfortable about the line of questioning you are both within your rights to refuse an answer or else cease questioning for the time being. To make all parties aware – it is the fifteenth of December, 1941, I am joined by Harold Smith, age 16, and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and I am asking now if all parties can confirm this fact?"

The two men nodded their heads and mumbled their agreement.

"I will now be passing over a contract to ensure that you are happy and willing for me, and other witnesses, to secure these memories in a pensieve for the duration of this investigation." He gestured to the men behind him, who stared blankly ahead.

The papers were quickly signed by both men and passed back to the Auror who checked the papers before clearing his throat.

"Mr Smith – Harold, can I call you that?"

"Yes, sir." He nodded, sitting forward in his chair and eyeing the man opposite him intently.

It felt foreign to be referred to by that strange name - but then, he had never had a name. People had called him Harry for years and he had never had a say in it; something as simple as a change of name would not bother him now.

"Harold," he cleared his throat again. "Are you aware that at approximately quarter past four this afternoon you inflicted a great deal of damage to the sixth floor corridor outside the current Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom?"

"I have been informed that this happened," he replied simply.

"Who informed you?" Figgins asked, scrunching up his eyebrows and crossing his arms.

"Well, once I become aware that I wasn't sitting in class anymore and was out in the corridor, surrounded by all that wreckage, a boy – Ramus Lestrange, I'm sure he'll confer my story – shouted _"Smith's blown up the castle!"_ That was my first indication, sir."

"Thank you for providing Mr. Lestrange's name, this is very useful. Now, would you mind telling me exactly what happened during your lesson? No detail is too small."

He feigned a thoughtful expression, bringing the tip of his finger up to his chin. "Professor Merrythought explained that we would be covering the Unforgivable Curses. I was sat next to Avery and Lestrange. They didn't say anything to me, I don't recall any of the pupils really saying anything up to that point. I remember thinking it was quite unusual but then, given the topic, I can understand why everyone was so focused on the lesson for a change." He paused. Everyone had been focused on the lesson; everyone wanted to know what to expect, some people had also wanted to know _how_.

"Professor Merrythought made it very clear that this lesson was not a tool for people to start using these curses, sir, she said it was important to know what we were fighting against. This knowledge – it comforted me," he lowered his head mournfully, before chancing a glance at the Auror. He had a sympathetic smile on his face. His plan was working, as he knew it would. "Merrythought, she began with the Imperius curse. I had heard of it, most of us had, so we began answering questions that she had prepared. That's when she asked for a volunteer," he swallowed in an attempt to look nervous. Dumbledore passed him a glass of water, which he accepted with an appreciative nod.

"A volunteer?" Auror Figgins indicated for him to continue.

"To demonstrate its effects," he said in a rush. "I was so curious, I wanted to know what it felt like, so I could be prepared – I want to be an Auror too, you know – so I immediately put my hand up. That's when she pointed her wand at me and said the curse…"

 _It didn't work._ Harry had also been able to deflect the spell, back when he had been a resilient young man with a strong head and fire in his heart, though he doubted he would have been able to towards the end.

The Auror put his hand up to stop him from continuing. "Sorry to interrupt, but do you remember what the incantation was?"

"Er, yes, sir. It was Imperio."

"Okay, lad. You may continue."

He frowned. "That's just it, sir. My memory is blurry after that. I remember moving toward the corridor, sort of a muscle memory really, but I don't remember how I got there, if that makes any sense. The only thing I truly remember is seeing Ramus's shocked face after it happened, and the wreckage in the corridor…"

 _And the looks on the mudblood's faces before he had tried to destroy them._ He sighed, heavily. "Sir, there is simply nothing more I can say."

"The Imperius curse is not usually prone to this manner of memory loss," the Auror mused, tapping his quill on the parchment in front of him.

"It would be unwise to speculate on the effects of the curse, particularly on a developing brain like young Harold's here," Dumbledore interrupted, leaning forward and fixing the Auror with a hard, intimidating stare.

"Indeed," Figgins said hastily. "Everyone reacts differently to having their brain addled with."

"Thank you, Auror Figgins. I'm glad we're in agreement." He sat back, crossing his arms and looking somewhat triumphant.

For a man who was world-renowned for his intelligence and magical power, Dumbledore had been the easiest of all to fool. A simple story about being an orphan of the war in Europe with Grindelwald and Dumbledore had been his greatest ally when meeting with Dippet to beg for entry to the school. Why had Harry never exploited the poor orphan card to this effect? He could have achieved so much more. It worked so well on Dumbledore, who was literally jumping to the aid of a relative stranger who had seriously injured four pupils based on nothing but _his word_. Harry, who had every chance, had wasted it foolishly on the _love_ that possessed him. If not for that love, each death he had experienced would not have dealt blow after devastating blow, he would not have roamed down the road of despair and hate that had maimed his soul _just enough_ that he had left himself vulnerable to the horcrux that would have otherwise lay dormant. He would have survived that killing curse, but ultimately love had left him weak.

_I'm not weak._

"If you have finished with your questions, Auror Figgins, the school has prepared a room for young Harold away from prying eyes while the investigation is being carried out."

"Do you have anything else you wish to tell me, Harold?"

"No, sir. Nothing."

"Then I shall wish you both goodnight." He gathered up his parchment and quills and gestured for the other men to follow him out of the door.

"Awful business, just awful. But he's German, her husband…" The portraits were mumbling on the wall upon the departure of the Aurors, but a portrait of a woman spoke obnoxious and loud over all the others.

"Are you not a little old to be listening to the gossiping of school children, Agnes?" Dumbledore raised his eyebrow expectantly at the portrait.

The portrait of the haughty-looking woman flushed. She scowled at him and Dumbledore in turn, and bit out. "Never underestimate a school child. Gertrude the Grave was once a child at this school and she killed five of her housemates in 1354!"

Dumbledore sighed and shook his head, turning away from the portrait with a frown. He looked disappointed, but more than that, he looked exhausted. It was almost midnight.

"I am sorry that you have had to go through this, Harold. It's your first month at the school, I just hope you do not think too badly of Hogwarts once this investigation has reached a conclusion."

He rose to his feet as Dumbledore rose to his feet, the latter making a show of brushing down his bright blue and purple robes.

"I'm not sure I could think too badly of Hogwarts. The school has been so welcoming," he said.

"I'm glad it has been a comfort to you; Hogwarts should feel like home to all who step through her doors." Dumbledore looked strained for a moment before he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Harold, the portraits have been enchanted to not reveal anything that happens in this room. I do not want you to be concerned that anything discussed here will be passed on to your fellow pupils."

He could not care less that this measure was in place. Everything would fall into place whether the children knew what had happened or not.

"I appreciate it, sir," he smiled, and his cheeks ached with the effort.

"If you need to discuss anything, you should know that this office – and my office – is a safe space for you to come."

"Thank you, sir."

His mouth was so tired of saying sir. But the glorious fact of having a mouth, that he could use, made many a complaint fruitless.

"Shall we, my boy?" Dumbledore gestured to the door.

Once out into the corridor, the two walked in silence. Dumbledore guided him through the halls of the school until he reached what Harry had known to be an abandoned corridor when he had attended Hogwarts. It felt odd to have these memories of the body he had now acting under the control of another. Like the _Imperius curse_ – but that was entirely speculative. He would not know, he had never been under that curse before.

It was so easy to lie; he did not know why it had ever caused Harry so much turmoil. It made him weak, so weak.

_I'm not weak._

"We're here," Dumbledore said, opening the door at the end of the corridor. The room was dusty and the draught of opening the door caused the dust to take the air. Instinctively, he took out his wand and with a flick the dust vanished.

Dumbledore appraised him over his half-moon glasses. "Very clever, Harold. The house elves will endeavour to bring you your belongings and are instructed to bring you food regularly. I hope you will not have to stay here for long."

He knew he would not have to stay here for long – after all, he would never do half a job. He had already endeavoured to implicate Merrythought's husband in his support of Grindelwald. Heinz Merrythought was an academic who specialised in political climates and commentary. His work had been _so benign_ , but Harold Smith had improved that by writing some incriminating anti-mudblood articles in his script which would lead to no other conclusion than guilt. Aurors were probably at his house now discovering the plethora of evidence that he had left for them. An incriminating pamphlet about mudblood inferiority would greet them at the door, but further inspection of Heinz's study would lead them to gasp and cry that poor Heinz had been indoctrinated, been brainwashed.

 _Oh, wasn't it a shame, how even the most simple, well-mannered couple could be radicalised in such a way._ He had half-considered staging a suicide of Heinz to sweeten the blow, but that was quite unnecessary at this time.

He already had one upcoming tragedy to deal with at Hogwarts - and possibly four more if the mudbloods in St Mungo's would _just die_.

He looked around the room he had found himself alone in. A simple four post bed with cream drapes and a desk. He wanted to leave, wanted to be free of the confined space – he still had so much to achieve; there was still so much more _Tom_ needed help with. He remembered how important his fifth year had been.

As he sat down on the bed, he could not help but remember with a jolt in his dastardly scar the destruction of Harry's soul, back when he had felt more in control of his body than he had ever been. Harry's soul had been deprecated; it was too weak, not strong enough for a body.

_I'm not weak._

The last thing he had seen were the slits for eyes and deformed body of a madman before he had been buffeted by death and reached salvation with a time turner. The time turner had given him a potent tool that almost overshadowed the newfound power of being in control of a body. He had not had long to consider which point in history to escape to. In the end, he had been guided by one lone motivation. He would not let himself become that madman, gripped with fear by something as feeble as death, pathetically heeding the words of prophecies as if fate was truly powerful enough to control him. No: this time Tom Riddle would succeed, this time his power would not be hindered.

Harold Smith would make sure of that.

* * *

The school was abuzz with the drama surrounding Harold Smith over the next few days. Rumour was abound about Harold and Merrythought, each one more ridiculous than the last. Tom had heard that Harold was Merrythought's secret lovechild, that Harold was a Grindelwald follower, and even that someone had placed the Imperius curse on Merrythought to cast the Imperius curse on Harold. Tom did not want to wrap his mind around the convoluted nature of that particular rumour.

Ultimately, Tom grew tired of hearing Harold's name; unfortunately for him, it was Stephen's two new favourite words.

"Do you think he's from the Smith family? You know, the one related to Helga Hufflepuff?" Stephen asked him one morning over breakfast.

Tom looked beside him, hoping he was engaging any other person in a conversation about the older boy. "I don't know, Smith is quite a common name…" he shrugged.

"I always thought Harold seemed like such a nice boy, it's not fair on him – all this – I bet his parents are fuming with the school, but it's strange – we've not seen them about the castle."

"Maybe they are muggles," Tom suggested offhandedly, taking a sip of tea.

"No way, there is no way Smith is a mudblood…" Stephen scoffed, and this went on.

As much as Tom loathed to admit it, he had found an unlikely ally in Goyle, who seemed to dislike Harold just as much as Tom, though for a vastly different reason. He was much more overt than Tom in this dislike of Harold. As the boys were gathered in the Common room one evening: Tom lazily reading a book, Lestrange concentrating on an essay, while Goyle was having a game of chess with Walburga, all of them trying to drown out Stephen's incessant ramblings about Harold _yet again_. Goyle threw the pawn he was holding in his hand at Stephen's head and the occupants of the room all stopped to stare.

"What the hell was that for, Norman?" Stephen asked, taking to his feet and approaching the larger boy, who sighed but remained seated.

"What the fuck d'you even know about this boy, Stephen?" Goyle asked.

"Not a lot – there's just something interesting about him…"

"Something interesting about him," Goyle mocked him. "Are you _bent_ for Harold Smith?"

"No!" Stephen said at once, glancing around and seeming uncomfortable at all the eyes that the word had attracted. "Give over, Goyle. As if I'd be bent for anyone."

Goyle stood abruptly from his chair. The movement had knocked a few more pieces off the chess board and Walburga looked suitably irritated at having to pick them up. Goyle ignored her and approached Stephen until their faces were only inches apart.

"Then will you shut the fuck up about Harold bloody Smith!"

Tom would not have put it so crudely, but could nonetheless appreciate the sentiment from Goyle, who had already turned around in the hopes of resuming his game with Walburga. He was impressed by this rare show of intimidation from the admittedly ill-mannered, but largely quiet, boy.

Stephen had become borderline obsessed with Harold lately, and in front of Tom no less, who had shown nothing but dislike for the boy. As if sensing Tom's thoughts, Stephen turned to look at him.

"Harold's a git. It's – it's just an interesting thing to happen, is all."

Tom nodded. "I would have thought the investigation would have finished by now - it's been three days."

"Yeah," Goyle grunted. "Then we can all go back to ignoring the bastard – you know, I bet he is a fucking mudblood, I never thought of that…" his voice trailed off, though Tom vaguely heard _'Scarlett with a mudblood'_ in amongst all the mumbling.

Classes proceeded normally on Monday, and the student body began to buzz in anticipation for the Yule holidays which would begin that Wednesday. Interestingly, Tom's _Defence Against the Dark Arts_ class that morning had been taught by Professor Dippet. The old man's frailty was all-too apparent, and it had been the first class in the subject that Tom could recall using no spell-work. The change in circumstances made him feel very uncomfortable, more so than he would ever admit.

His thoughts were interrupted by a slight cough from his right. He had half-forgotten he was sat in Divination class, and certainly had not realised that Roldan had chosen to sit next to him – all bar one seat, which was pointedly empty. Roldan must have been more affected by Tom's countless dismissals of him than he had originally thought. He glanced at the ill boy surreptitiously and was struck by how much better the ill boy was looking. The bags under his eyes had gone and he looked _clean_. He was smiling slightly, staring at Professor Lawry in an apparent show of attention, though clearly caught up in his own thoughts.

"Your task today will be to glean your partner's future from the crystal ball before you – do not heed your inhibitions, they will only serve to hinder the process," Professor Lawry said, before sitting down upon her stool and taking out a stack of parchments to mark.

Tom turned towards Roldan – loathe as he was to admit it, he was the only possible partner. He had not appeared to hear Lawry, if his inane grinning at the middle distance was anything to go by.

Tom grimaced. He really did not want to talk to the Ravenclaw – but, he supposed, he did look better – perhaps he could just pretend there was nothing wrong…

"Would you like to, er, look into the crystal ball first, or shall I?" Tom asked, his voice wavering despite himself.

Roldan startled. "What? Oh yeah, certainly, you go first Tom."

Roldan barely looked at him. Tom wondered what he had been thinking.

He picked up the crystal ball and turned it thrice in his hand as Lawry had instructed. The swirling mist inside the ball gradually became darker the more he thought about the subject whose future he was supposed to be predicting, until it became black, reflecting nothing but Tom's face back at him – although, that did not look quite like him. He peered closer – his hair appeared messier, his fringe which he usually slicked back was falling across a mark on his forehead –

"You can stare closer if you want," Roldan said lightly, crossing his arms. There was a hint of mirth in his voice that disconcerted Tom. "It will still be black. That's where I'm going, after all."

Tom felt nauseous; the room began to spin, his ears were ringing. He thrust the crystal ball into Roldan's hands as if this would alleviate the discomfort. He took a breath and, as if through a tunnel, he heard Roldan speak again.

"Snow. That's all I see. It's Scotland and it's December, that's hardly a revelation. Perhaps you need to be careful of the snow?"

Tom did not respond, could not respond. It had been a bad idea to speak to Roldan again, a very bad idea. He shifted his gaze towards Professor Lawry as she put quill to parchment, trying to think of anything but that which made him feel this way. The Divination professor glanced up at Tom as if she had sensed his stare. Her eyes locked on to his and he did not look away, did not care whether it was making his teacher uncomfortable, because the alternative was looking at _him_.

* * *

 _Merrythought and Smith, Merrythought and Smith:_ the only two names the school seemed capable of speaking. Tom grew more and more apathetic to the situation, so when the students were called to attention one evening in the Great Hall, Tom only found himself vaguely interested in the announcement that followed.

"Due to an event which happened this week," Dippet began gravely, "Professor Merrythought has been relieved as a teacher at this school. We will be endeavouring to secure a replacement as soon as we are able. In the meantime, I will be stepping in to teach your Defence Against the Dark Arts classes for the remainder of the term."

Tom was certain that Dippet was a powerful wizard – he had become Headmaster, after all – but the idea of him teaching a class seemed odd and foreign to him. The man was frail, Tom had seen that, and there were many practical elements to that particular class to consider.

"There's no way he'll find a replacement before the Yule holidays," Stephen said, glancing at Tom. Tom just shrugged.

"I just can't imagine Dippet being a very good Defence teacher," Goyle added. "What did he teach before? Herbology, wasn't it?"

Before anybody could confirm or deny that, the doors of the Great Hall opened, and an ominous hush fell over the crowd. Harold Smith walked in, hands deep in his pockets and eyes focused on his shoes as he made his way towards the Slytherin table. Tom could not help but be slightly impressed by this new level of audacity, to walk in so brazenly after an announcement like that. Before he sat down, Tom could not help but notice a small smile playing on Harold's lips. It was gone in an instant, however, and Harold sat down in the empty seat next to an uncomfortable Fawley, picking up a ladle of chicken soup.

Silence prevailed. Tom could see Stephen watching Harold intently. The red-headed boy was never one to stay quiet for long, especially not when something as scandalous as this had happened. He began to open his mouth to speak but Harold immediately threw his hand up to stop him.

"I'm not allowed to talk about it," Harold said quietly. "The Ministry had requested that I not tell another soul about the findings of the investigations."

Stephen opened his mouth to talk again, but for some reason Tom found himself interrupting.

"We know that Merrythought does not work for Hogwarts anymore. There is nothing more to be said on the matter."

Harold nodded at Tom in gratitude. Tom could do nothing but stare at the baffling boy. Tom was certain there was something suspect in his story, but he could not think of a reason to spare his precious time to discover why. He had other things to put time and effort into, after all, like his research into his family history and his schoolwork that he needed to maintain high scores in if he ever wanted to be something _special_ in the wizarding world. None of that involved traipsing off and figuring out mysteries about the unremarkable Harold Smith, even if he had become embroiled in a plot involving Unforgivable Curses on the Hogwarts grounds.

Harold coughed to break up the tension of the silence at the table. "What have I missed in class? Stephen? Fawley?"

The boys broke out into polite conversation after that, and Tom realised that despite how odd he found Harold, he did seem to have a manner that the other boys associated with. This was especially true of Stephen, who spoke to Harold with such an ease that Tom knew there must be a want for friendship. Tom would have to deny him that friendship, however – he was not in a position to be welcoming to the boy who had both made Tom uncomfortable and generated a swirl of distress in three short weeks at the school. Harold Smith was more trouble than it was worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter is one of my favourite characters, so it pains me to consign him to a lifetime of almost-soulessness, but for the sake of the plot I have to.  
> Any comments would be great, as always.


	6. The Problem With Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took far too long to write. I have a full-time job and, up until yesterday, I was also studying. All whilst also applying for Master degrees means that the leisure time I devote to writing has been in short supply recently. However - I did also write the chapter after next whilst in the process of writing this one, so future updates will be a little quicker.  
> I loved some of the reactions to what happened to Harry's soul, makes me feel good about where I am taking this. Prepare yourself for some psychological fun/angst.

_I cannot trust a man to control others when he cannot control himself._

* * *

The shock of losing Professor Merrythought resonated not only throughout the school, but also throughout wizarding Britain. It was apparently unprecedented that a teacher be asked to leave Hogwarts. It did not seem so remarkable to Tom, who had experienced countless teachers at his muggle junior schools who had been asked to leave after questionable discipline methods. The cane had been an encouraged form of discipline throughout his early childhood, Tom knew that only too well, but some teachers overzealous use of this method had meant Tom could not count on his hands how many different teachers he had at his muggle schools. Although, he could count on his hands how many had been his fault. He thought fondly about Mr. Benson, who – midway through caning nine-year old Tom’s knuckles – was startled to realise he was holding a live snake, and Mrs Courtwell, whose clothes had caught fire and become singed to her skin after screaming at Tom about frightening the other children. He had been frightening the other children by speaking to garden snakes, but nonetheless he did not appreciate her tone.

Something about children in muggle schools made teachers want to beat them – for Tom, it was a simple matter which spoke more about the impatience of muggle adults and the petulance of muggle children. This was so different compared to the wizarding world and Hogwarts, where Tom had not once heard mention of the cane or any spells which were used for similar purposes. There had been a few detentions he had heard of which happened in the Forbidden Forest but being equipped with a wand surely took the edge off such punishments.

Tom did not have to endure the gossiping of the student population for long. The Yule holidays began on a clear-skied day, and he spent most of his morning seeing off his housemates with polite goodbyes and declinations of being invited to _this_ party at their holiday home or _that_ party at their manor, insisting that he had plans that holiday without making them privy to it. It was a routine that he partook in every Yule – decline every invitation, not socialise with any one for at least a week and a half, read and acquire knowledge without the curious glances of his housemates. This holiday he did have plans, however; on the thirtieth he had that meeting with the muggle in London, the meeting that made him feel dread and something akin to anticipation every time he thought of it, and so he tried not to.

“ – and whatever you do, try to _avoid Harold_ – “ Stephen was mid-way through a long-winded goodbye that Tom wished would end, and soon. It was true that Tom and Harold’s relationship had resumed its hostility despite the dramatic Professor Merrythought interlude. Tom wanted more than anything to be ignored by the strange boy, but Harold sought him out at every opportunity. Tom had grown to begrudgingly accept this would happen again since he and Harold were the only two Slytherins left in the castle for Yule.

“ – and once again, if you are able to attend our New Year’s party, please do not hesitate to send me an owl for the details. I know you have plans, but if they do change, just know that you are welcome to attend. You made quite an impression on my mother last time you spoke – “

“Thank you for your kind invitation.” Tom interrupted, immediately silencing the red-headed boy. He had heard at length about how it was the Avery family’s turn to host this prestigious event for wizarding families. Tom had been invited countless times over the years, but never attended – if his housemate’s parents were anything like their children when they had first met Tom, there would be far too many unpleasant, speculative conversations surrounding his heritage. “I hope you and your family have a good holiday.”

“And you, Tom.” Stephen replied, smiling in earnest. He picked up his trunk, dragging it noisily across the cobbled floor of the dormitory before leaving Tom blissfully and unequivocally alone.

_At last._ Tom stood stock still for a full two minutes, listening intently as the sounds of distant conversation and footsteps disappeared, before ascending the stairs to the wonderfully empty common room and dipping into his favourite armchair with his worn copy of _Moste Potent Potions_ , wondering how long this feeling of contentedness would last.

* * *

The contentedness did not last long. Tom barely had a twenty-four-hour period in which to collect himself, until Harold chose the afternoon of Christmas eve to accost him.

“Hey Tom!”

_Hey Tom. Hey_ fucking _Tom._ Harold poked his head out from behind the door of the library Tom had been about to enter. Tom took two steps backwards to allow Harold the freedom to _move out of his way_ , eyes fixated on the other boy’s shoes as if avoiding looking at his face might somehow prevent further communication, but this was blatantly not something Harold could allow.

“I’m starting to get offended by your behaviour around me, Tom. Look – you’re clever, so I don’t know why that impressive brain of yours has not accepted my help when I am offering it to you so plainly.”

“Kindly stop, Harold.” Tom said exasperatedly. “I’m not interested in your brand of help.”

 “It is almost as if you want to be _just_ Tom Riddle. I don’t know why you are being so ungrateful and – and such a _brat_.” Harold clamped a hand over his mouth while his green eyes widened comically. Tom’s eyes narrowed; apparently even Harold knew he needed a filter.

 “I don’t trust you, Harold. None of what has happened recently has changed that. I don’t even know who you are or what you’re trying to do.”

Tom tried in vain to try not to appear flustered. Harold was looking at him, analysing him, his hand still clinging to his lips. Tom raked his hand through his hair, and any illusion of calm was gone. A familiar feeling of anger that he had tried to rid himself of rushed through him as he regarded the idiotic boy in front of him. He could not stop his mind from imagining all the ways he could hurt Harold in this instant, make him fear for what he was doing Tom.

“Can you not just see - just _feel_ \- that I’m trying to help?” Harold asked, his voice mumbled beneath the hands which were still half-blocking his mouth.

“ _Just feel_ ,” Tom mocked. “You really are pathetic. No, I cannot _feel_ that you are trying to _help_ – in fact, it feels like you are doing the opposite, and I’ve had _enough_.”

Deciding to forgo all sense of calm, Tom reached for his wand first, and Harold followed his lead mere seconds later. The two black-haired boys stood for a long time, wands pointed at each other and rigid glances tearing into each other.

“Don’t be silly, Tom.” Harold said – blithely. It was the only motivation Tom needed to act.

The curses flew from his wand thick and fast, showers of silvers and reds bouncing off Harold’s seemingly impenetrable shield. For all Tom knew about dispelling shields, that knowledge was delving too far into the Dark Arts to be used at Hogwarts - a school that he considered a home, not like those unpleasant muggle institutions that had expelled him simply for using magic.

“ _Stupefy_ ,” Tom said quickly as he noticed Harold’s shield flicker and falter.

Harold stepped to the side, dodging the spell. Tom seethed, throwing his body further towards Harold as the spells continued to flurry from his wand.

“That is _enough_ ,” Harold shouted, reminding Tom of being chastised by a teacher for being disobedient. He saw red then, and an unsavoury curse was on the tip of his tongue –

Harold’s wand jolted and the air around it seemed to surge, hitting Tom with a blast that knocked him into the cold, stony floor. He scrambled quickly to his feet. Harold was smiling eerily at him, twirling his wand around his fingers. Not for the first time, Tom considered whether Harold had escaped from St Mungo’s.

“You have so much to learn,” Harold whispered. Tom had the succinct feeling then that Harold was looking straight through his eye sockets and into his brain.

“Boys!” The shrill voice was enough to make Tom’s wand go slack in his hand. “Fifty points from Slytherin – each!”

Professor Lawry moved swiftly to stand between them, arms folded and eyes widened in apparent outrage.

“Mr Riddle, I expect better from you,” she said. Tom felt as thought he should feel guilty – and yet, nothing. _Always nothing._

“But it’s exactly what you’d expect from me?” Harold smirked brazenly.

“Do I need to remove another 10 points for your cheek, Mr Smith?”

Harold looked unbothered by the punishment; he was still carelessly twirling his wand. He opened his mouth as if ready to retort but caught Tom’s eye.

“No, Professor,” he said, his eyes still locked onto Tom. “I’m sorry.”

“Both of you will be serving detention tonight – “ the Divination teacher began.

“ – but it’s Christmas eve!” Harold’s inability to cease _running his mouth_ knew no end.

“Yes, and it is highly unusual to witness two older boys duelling when it is supposed to be the school holidays,” she said. “I almost went to Cornwall to visit my sister for Christmas – isn’t it a good thing I didn’t? The two of you may have been spending Christmas Day in the Infirmary!”

* * *

He spent the rest of the day in the library working on essays, as if being around the tomes of knowledge was enough to atone him of his misdeeds. He did not regret it, could not truly regret it, but could not help wondering why he acted as he did. He thought of Harold, speaking freely with him about knowing some deep-seated fact about him that Tom himself was not privy to in the same way he thought about Alphard daring to endear him with the simple title “mate”. It was that level of familiarity that he could not understand. It infuriated him, now more than ever, that another person could bring that missing piece of his brain to the surface, tauntingly. They did not have the right, not when Tom had applied painstaking effort to push it deeper and deeper into his mind.

Tom cast the tempus charm, which revealed that he had only ten unfortunate minutes until his very first detention. The Trophy Room was only a short walk from the library, but Tom felt uneasy about the aspect of being late, so he finished his essay with haste but no less flourish, stowed his quill and parchment in his bag and began the slow amble towards his destination. He was glad for the emptiness of the corridors at that moment more than any - even the portraits’ occupants seemed to have vacated their frames – lest there were any witnesses to his fall from grace. As his feet carried him along the stony floor of the corridor where he and Harold had duelled, he wondered whether Harold would inform his housemates about their mutual detention. He seemed the type of person to engage in gossiping, though if Tom was being truthful with himself he had no grounds on which to make that claim. He had never once divulged any information about the Merrythought investigation – not even one careless slip up – and not many sixteen-year-olds had that level of self-control.

That evening, Tom had planned to finish his Charms essay; that evening, Tom had planned to curl up with a book by the fire in the blissfully empty Common Room. Instead, he found himself at the entrance of the Trophy Room forced to clean the trophies of people who had achieved _something_. He did not even have to do manual cleaning at the orphanage – the matron there feared him and never asked. Tom entered the room that he had perhaps visited once in five years and was met with, well, mostly Quidditch trophies, a sport that Tom could not see the point of, all adorning the walls and countless cabinets of the vast room. With every movement Tom made, his eyes would spark with the glean of a reflection from the torches scattered across the walls. He shrugged off his robe and placed his bag near the door, before attacking the first batch of trophies he could see with his cloth.

Much to Tom’s irritation, Harold did not arrive until thirty minutes later. As soon as he entered he appeared agitated, erratic even, and through his peripheral vision Tom could see him pacing back and forth, fingers counting an invisible beat in the air. He stomped his foot once as if to mark the end of his pacing, aggressively picking up a cloth and launching himself at the trophies. Tom thought he had been vigorously cleaning, but he had nothing on Harold, whose hands were nothing but blurs intent on the purpose of his detention. His facial features twisted, and he seemed to wince at every moment in motion. _Was he in pain?_ Tom inwardly berated himself for staring and made a conscious decision to ignore him. He thought of all the trophies in this room – there must have been thousands – and allowed himself to be overcome by simple thoughts about what the receivers of these trophies had gone on to achieve, and how he would feel lauded to be immortalised as a trophy. Tom’s irritation was subsiding, and he was beginning to enjoy the idea of being able to think simple thoughts when the silence was shattered.

Harold dropped a trophy. This was not a matter of concern. They were handling trophies and one of them was decidedly more unstable than the other - little upsets were bound to happen. The unoffending trophy lay on the floor between them. It could have easily been remedied by a quick summoning charm. Tom stared at Harold and Harold’s hard stare ripped into the unoffending trophy. The impact of the fall did not cause it to shatter – Tom was certain of this – but in a burst of magic that rippled the air and made his ears ring, the trophy was no more.

“Shit, shit, _shit_ …” Harold muttered. His hands were shaking, literally shaking, and the trophies around him began to tremble too – Tom had been mad before, enraged even, but he could not imagine such a physical display of anger – and _accidental magic_? He had more poise, more control. What was wrong with Harold, that he could succumb to uncontrollable magic like a petulant child?

Tom clutched at the wand in his back pocket cautiously, ready to apprehend Harold at any moment, but with a deep breath from Harold the trembling ceased. Tom did not want to talk to Harold – he really, really _didn’t_ want to – but so much had happened in their moments of silence that he felt compelled to.

“I thought you would have been used to detention by now, Harold,” he said, picking up another trophy to dust and pretending to have not noticed Harold’s apparent magical meltdown.

“There are a lot of things I am used to that I don’t like,” Harold replied in a voice that trembled, casting a quick reparation charm on the broken trophy before him.

Tom did not know what that was supposed to mean. He pondered the words as he continued the menial labour, considering intently the older boy’s motivations. There were many things that Harold said that insinuated some untold depth that none but he could be privy to. But what depth could a sixteen-year-old boy be privy to? He thought of Goyle, and the way he brooded over losing Scarlett, often revealing how he was feeling to his fellow housemates – mostly the girls – whether they wanted to know or not, using what seemed like riddles to convey emotions that Tom could only interpret as _‘I am sad’, ‘I am confused’, ‘I am frustrated’, ‘I feel nothing at all’_ …

He could not fathom the expression of emotion that would change on each retelling.

When Goyle spoke in these mysterious ways, his primary motivation was attention, and this is what he received, time and time again. Tom had never once devoted that manner of attention to another person. He wondered what it would be like.

Tom placed the now-gleaming trophy back down on the shelf and turned towards Harold, who had returned to scrubbing. Whether it was due to the extreme circumstances – he, Tom Riddle, in detention of all places – or because of some _morbid_ desire to experiment with this form of _consideration_ to another person, an aspect of socialisation that noticeably evaded him.

“Are you well, Harold?” He asked, taking a step towards the boy who had turned to allow his startling green eyes to bore into his own.

Tom’s shoulders were slumped, his face set with furrowed eyebrows and a slight frown. He felt his act of concern wobble and waver constantly. He had never felt the need to try so hard to care, but for the sake curiosity he would. Ignoring the foreign, utterly unsettling, feeling that he would forever associate with pretending to care, he chanced a slight smile at the boy in front of him.

“I am less well than I have been, more well than I will be,” he said tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. This reply was provocation for an onslaught of further questions. Tom’s curiosity and questions, however, were swept away with a curt nod.

He turned back to the trophy cabinet. Surprisingly, he felt less mad at Harold after their brief exchange. Harold appeared to be struggling with some form of inner turmoil, and Tom was okay with that, and did not feel the need to contribute to it, no matter how much he had wanted to curse the boy to hell mere minutes ago.

“Hey Tom.”

Tom swerved to discover Harold standing directly behind him. Tom felt unnerved despite himself; he had not heard footsteps. Tom did not have to wonder what the boy was doing for long as Harold stretched out his hands.

“Thank you for asking.”

Tom’s brain protested but his limbs did not hear. He stretched out to grasp his hand. He had never shaken Harold’s hands before, which was bizarre because Tom shook the hand of every person he met out of politeness. He had been rather preoccupied at the time of their meeting, however, with the sudden, threatening appearance of the strange boy in the dungeon, the one whose portkey had malfunctioned.

Harold’s handshake was as firm as Tom’s own. He watched Tom intently, but the disconcerting stare was minimal compared to the peculiar heat which crept up his arm as their hands met. Harold had jinxed him, he was certain of it. He tore his hand away to inspect it. _What had happened?_

“You’re very powerful, Tom.” Harold said, apparently unaware of the intense feeling that was now slowly dissipating from Tom’s arm. “I’m sure you would have beat me if Lawry had not discovered us – “

“ – but it was a good job I did, Mr Smith,” the large door opened to reveal the Divination Professor, wearing her dressing gown and hair tied back in anticipation for bed. “It’s ten o’clock – time that you both went to bed. I hope you will both be present for the Christmas feast tomorrow.”

Tom and Harold nodded mutely.

“Good.” Professor Lawry sighed. “I was a pupil at this school, and I am not so old that I do not remember what it was to be young. I do not begrudge two young men for falling out – truly, I do not. However - ” Tom _loathed_ ‘howevers’ “ - I do begrudge the two of you for falling out. There is truly a potent sense of sameness between you. I am very familiar with auras, boys; I have practiced Divination intently all my life. I know better than anyone you will ever meet. There is a potential for a true and powerful friendship here, if only you were not so blind to see it.”

Her eyes found Tom, who shifted his gaze away. He wanted to go to sleep; he did not want a friend.

“Goodnight Professor, Harold,” he said shortly, gathering up his belongings quickly and making a beeline for the door.

When Tom tucked himself into bed that night, he found himself missing the bodies of his housemates around him for the first Yule ever. He hated that he did not have to pull the drapes around his bed, hated that he could not hear them breathing, he hated that they were not there to remind him why he did not need friends – not when it was so easy to just influence them, to control them, to know exactly how they would react because there was a semblance of routine about them all.

He would belittle Alphard, Alphard would back down; occasionally, Alphard would try to show the others he had a backbone, but Tom would quickly stamp that out. The cyclical nature of their relationship was _routine_ and _perfect_ , and how every relationship should be.

Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be embroiled in the chaos of Harold Smith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reading fanfiction where Tom is a suave, manipulative, Prince of Slytherin, but unfortunately I can't make Tom like that. He is still a child who has to go through some exploration of who he is and who he isn't, he still has to struggle with his emotional disability until he realises how he can utilise it to his advantage or deny it completely.  
> I like brains, and if you like brains too, you'll appreciate what I mean when I say that I see Tom with only a half-functioning amygdala, and a half-functioning frontal lobe.  
> Comments are always appreciated.


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